


The Walking Ficlets

by Raicho



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Abused Daryl, Abusive Relationships, Age Difference, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Anal Fingering, Animal Transformation, Asphyxiation, Ass Play, Bar Room Brawl, Blow Jobs, Bottom Daryl, Boys in Skirts, Cecaelias, Child Abuse, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Collars, Creature Fic, Crossdressing Kink, Daddy Kink, Daryl Dixon is Murphy MacManus, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Drug Dealing, Dubious Consent, Eggpreg, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Facials, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fantasy, Feminine Terms, Feminization, First Meetings, First Time Shifting, Forced Pregnancy, Foreign Language, Friends With Benefits, Gang Rape, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Hurt Daryl, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Insecure Daryl, Jealous Daryl, Knifeplay, Leashes, Licking, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation, Merfolk AU, Mpreg, Mutual Masturbation, Name-Calling, Oaths & Vows, Outdoor Sex, Panty Kink, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Possessive Daryl, Protective Carol, Protective Daryl, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Puppy Play, Rape Aftermath, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rimming, Romantic Fluff, Shy Daryl, Situational Humiliation, Spanking, Synesthesia, Synesthete!Daryl, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence, Twink Daryl, Underage Drug Use, Unrequited Crush, Voyeurism, Weapons Kink, Weddings, Were-Creatures, copious amounts of lana del rey references, poor understanding of neurological conditions, threat of castration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-03 14:57:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: I'm going to try and post a ficlet for each day leading up to Christmas. I'm going to try and I'm probably going to fail. But either way we'll have fun along the way, right?Day 1: Surprise romantic sex - Rick/DarylDay 2: Bar fight - Rick/DarylDay 3: Dragon treasure - Rick/DarylDay 4: Fake relationship - Rick/DarylDay 5: Wedding vows - Rick/Daryl (Rick/Murphy)Day 6: Abusive relationship - Shane/DarylDay 7: Pregnancy announcement - Rick/DarylDay 8: Jealousy - Rick/DarylDay 9: Daddy/Panty kink - Merle/DarylDay 10: Rape aftermath - Carol & DarylDay 11: Submission - Negan/DarylDay 12: Childhood abuse - Merle/DarylDay 13: Crossdressing - Shane/DarylDay 14: Voyeurism - Merle/Daryl (+Glenn)Day 15: Animal shifting - Carol & DarylDay 16: Self deprecation - Negan/DarylDay 17: Flavor kink - Rick/DarylDay 18: Mild puppy play/knifeplay - Negan/DarylDay 19: Protective friend - Merle & Carol (Carol & Daryl)Day 20: Twink - Rick/DarylDay 21: Synesthesia - Shane/DarylDay 22: Tentacle kink - Shane/Daryl





	1. Do That to Me One More Time

**Author's Note:**

> The songs referenced are 'Do That to Me One More Time' by Captain & Tennille and 'Lady in Red' by Chris de Burgh.

            As Daryl opened the front door and flicked on the foyer light, he couldn’t help but notice the eerie silence that was settled over their home. He quickly shut the door and kicked off his boots before glancing around their home, noting his husband’s obvious absence from his seat on the living room couch. The television was turned off and the seats were all empty.

            He’d seen Rick’s car parked in the driveway as he pulled up to their home, quietly tucked away in their suburban cul de sac off of Magnolia Drive. _So where was he?_

            “Rick?” Daryl cautiously called out; his heart was beginning to beat faster with worry.

            There was no answer.

            Suddenly, Daryl heard the sound of muffled guitar notes followed by the soft pad of footsteps directly above the dining room.

            Rick was in their bedroom.

            Daryl rounded the corner and quietly crept up the stairs. The lights were all turned off but the music grew louder with each step closer. A woman’s recorded voice floated through the air, singing a familiar tune that he’d unfortunately recognized from the ‘80s. Daryl huffed and shook his head with amusement as he continued the hunt for his missing husband.

            "You would..." Daryl mumbled to himself.

            As he stalked closer toward the bedroom, Daryl noticed the door slightly ajar. From their room, a delicate glow of candlelight leaked into the hallway and helped illuminate his path.

_Do that to me one more time  
            I can never get enough of a man like you_

            “Really, Rick? Captain & Tennille?”

            When Daryl pushed open the door to the bedroom, he was immediately greeted by the vision of his husband sprawled across the top of their bed. The room was filled with subtle music and the soft light of flames from the nightstand, which only helped to emphasize the beautiful shimmer of Rick’s flushed skin. Daryl followed the trail of red rose petals littering the carpet.

            “I’ve been waitin’ for you all night, Sugar.” Rick drawled nice and slow, knowing exactly what his honey-sweet accent did to his husband.

            Daryl felt light headed as he took in Rick’s appearance of soft curls and lithe muscle; he was situated on his stomach, the expanse of his backside naked and exposed for Daryl to soak in. It was one of the hottest things he'd ever seen, and Daryl was more than ready to dive in and ravage the deputy sheriff like a pirate ready for the plunder. But his eyes caught on a thin piece of red fabric peeking out from between Rick’s toned cheeks...

            “Are you wearin’ a thong?” Daryl asked dumbly.

            Rick rolled over to face Daryl, his face completely flushed red as he hummed, “I thought you’d like it.”

            Daryl couldn’t help but laugh at Rick’s admission. But before the man got flustered enough to call off the night’s main event, Daryl crawled into bed beside him and gave Rick a playful peck against each ass cheek.

            “You kiddin’ me, Rick? I love it.”

            They slowly melted into each other as they exchanged fervent kisses, their hands exploring each other’s every curve. They pulled at Daryl’s clothes, leaving him as naked as a newborn babe, and Rick took the opportunity to lick every visible muscle on the man. They rolled around in each other’s arms, stroking and touching the most intimate parts of themselves like they were young lovers again.

            Just as Daryl positioned Rick to sit atop his face, the thin fabric of his thong and the welcoming heat of his scissored entrance so tantalizingly close, the music switched to another familiar slow croon.

_I've never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight  
            I've never seen you shine so bright_

            If Daryl were able to look at Rick, he’d have given him the most mocking of expressions. But instead, he lightly slapped at Rick’s ass and tickled his stubble against the sensitive skin as he mumbled.

            “How ‘bout next time you keep the thong and lose the slow jams?”


	2. What I'm Lookin' For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, Rick, you come here often?”

            Daryl came out with his brother hoping to find a fifth of whisky and a hot lay, but all he’d managed to gather so far was a couple of odd looks and some saliva on his boot.

            “The fuck you doin’ here, Merle?” some fatass hollers from his spot beside the pool table.

            Daryl looks up at his brother and watches as just snarls at their audience—the crowd of backwoods men scattered throughout the barroom—and whistles, “I thought y’all could use a lil’ bit o’ Dixon t’ help brighten yer day. Ain’t still mad over that deal with Cap ‘n Cook now are ya?”

            And before Daryl even knows to turn his brother back around toward the door, an emptied bottle of beer gets thrown over his head, hitting Merle square in the shoulder. Daryl knows Merle’s never one to just take a hit without giving a bit of bruises in return, so he quickly ducks before another bottle comes flying their way.

            “You mother fucker!”

            A man rises to meet his brother’s eye, and Merle’s hollering some unrecognized jargon as he lifts up a barstool and swings it around and over his head, twirling the wooden furniture like a lethal baton through the air. Men start jumping from their seats, and immediately fists start swinging from both ends.

            Daryl did not leave the sanctuary of his laurels only to get dragged into Merle’s shit tonight.

            Moving away from the eye of the storm, Daryl crawls along the floor as he hears the distinct sound of wood beginning to split against the contact of broken skin and bone. By the time he reaches the bar, there’s glass shards and blood splatter littering the linoleum, and honestly he’s just impressed that there aren’t any bullet shells there for him to slip on.

            Without being seen, Daryl slips behind the solid barrier of the bar counter and hides. He shuffles along the sticky floor before he’s squatting within the empty space beneath the cash drawer. He tucks his legs and brings his knees up snug against his chest as he waits for the violence around him to settle into an envied calm.

            He never cared for loud noises or closed fists. He’d seen enough of those things back home.

            “Hey.”

            Someone’s voice drags Daryl away from his focus on the fight.

            Daryl lifts his eyes to find another man crouched opposite of him hidden beneath the shelves of liquor and glassware. The guy’s smirking at him with an amused glint in his blue eyes, and Daryl can’t help but respond with his own devilish grin.

            “Hey.” Daryl nods.

            "Not one for bar fights?"

            Someone’s bulk hits the top of the counter, knocking over unfinished bottles and unemptied ashtrays. Daryl flinches.

            "Me neither."

            Surprisingly, the guy hidden beneath the shelves shimmies out from his hiding place and comes over to crouch beside Daryl instead. Daryl blushes at the proximity, the closeness allowing him to take in the man’s handsome features—soft curls, smooth muscle, and a short beard peppered with hints of silver that help to bring out the intensity of the man’s eyes.

            “My name’s Rick.” The man smiles as he extends a hand for Daryl to shake.

            Daryl looks at the offered hand for a moment before whispering, “I’m Daryl.”

            Another body rocks up against the bar, and it's accompanied with a loud scream as someone’s forearm is twisted into an unnatural angle. Merle’s laughing like a maniac and Daryl swears he can see his brother's reflection in the decorative mirror behind the liquor shelves dancing on one of the tables like some dick from Hell. Someone’s gun fires and the lights flicker at the action.

            Daryl flinches again.

            The man beside him looks at him with concern before leaning up against his side.

            “That man out there looks like some sort of wild animal if you ask me,” Rick nods to Merle’s reflection in the mirror.

            Daryl snorts, “Well it’s ‘cause he is,” he doesn’t realize that the tension in his shoulders unwinds when he looks up to see Merle still holding the upper hand after that last gunshot, “Sonovabitch probably has rabies.”

            “Hmm,” Rick hums, “Would make sense.”

            The two of them sit together in comfortable silence as they watch the battle royale unfold through the display in the mirror. A few minutes pass when Rick decides to take a chance and reach his hand up to the bar. Daryl watches him curiously as Rick successfully grabs hold of a half-emptied bottle of Jack. Rick purrs happily as he pulls it down into their cozy nook beneath the counter and cradles the bottle close to his chest as he begins to twist the cap. Daryl watches as Rick takes a long swig of the amber liquid. He suddenly feels parched.

            “Care for a drink?” Rick offers with a refreshed gasp as he passes over the bottle into Daryl’s lap.

            Daryl gratefully accepts the bottle and quickly wraps his lips over the rim to take a long chug. He purrs when the alcohol burns the back of his throat and warms his gut.

            He looks up to find Rick watching him with glazed eyes.

            “That’s right you sorry sacks a’ shit!” Merle’s victory interrupts the moment, his voice booming loud and proud.

            Both Daryl and Rick laugh.

            Before they begin their crawl out from their hiding place, Daryl catches Rick’s hand in his grip. After having more than just a fifth of whisky, he’s feeling bit bolder than his usual awkward self.

            “So, Rick, you come here often?”

            Rick looks at him and gives him the biggest shit eating grin and the most seductive wink.

            His voice is like flowing caramel, “I guess I do now.”

            Maybe Daryl did find what he was looking for.


	3. His Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>             _Mine. My human_.  _Keep safe. Keep warm._

            A calloused hand brushed against Daryl’s snout as he curled tighter around the warmth of his human. Daryl’s tail swayed from side to side with contentment and his chest rumbled with a low purr as he looked down at the lithe body tucked beside his emerald-green scales, waiting for slumber to take hold and carry the human off to dreamland. Daryl would watch him as he slept.

            _Mine. My human_.  _Keep safe. Keep warm._

            Daryl was not like other dragons.

            He might’ve shared the likened appearance of his species—long, menacing claws, thick, shimmering scales, and giant, powerful wings. But he’d never shared much else.

            For as long as he could remember, Daryl had never lusted after gems or gold. His joy was not dependent upon tangible riches decorating his halls. Daryl’s treasure had been the vast beauty of the greenwood—its flowing rivers, wind-swept fields, and hearty woodlands were enough to make his heart burst with admiration. And so he’d spent his days as the forest’s shepherd, guarding its virtue since the beginning of time.

            Daryl had a brother once—Merle, a large beast with silver scales and thunderous wings. Together they were content playing in the canopies and flying through the clouds without chains to hold them down. They were old as time and free as air. Together they were ancient spirits that roamed the land and protected its peace.

            But humans invaded their realm.

            The forests burned to ash. Rivers ran dark with spilled blood. The sky turned black with smoke. All had been lost.

            When Merle died battle, Daryl had howled for years without end.

            But someone had heard his cries.

            “Why are you crying?”

            A boy, no older than fifteen at the time, had asked the dragon after having stumbled into the hidden copse of Merle's gravesite; his voice had been as sweet as fresh honeysuckle.

            “I’m alone.” Daryl had answered.

            The boy, with his bright blue eyes and soft hands, had reached out to gently brush against Daryl’s snout in a reassuring gesture of kindness. There’d been warmth that radiated beneath his palm, and it had sent sparks through the cold armor of the dragon’s scales.

            _I want this warmth_.

            “You’re not anymore.”

            _Don’t want to be alone._

            “I’ll be your friend,” the boy had whispered against Daryl’s ear.

            _Stay with me. Stay with me._

“What’s your name?”

            Daryl snorted. It’d been several millennia since he’d had a name.

            “My brother called me Daryl.”

            The human nodded, “My name’s Rick.”

            _Rick. Rick. Rick._ _Mine._

            There’d been a momentary flutter in Daryl’s chest and he’d wondered if that was the type of rush most experienced when stumbling upon a gold mine.

            “We don’t have to be alone anymore.”

            Since that day, Daryl had taken the boy under his wing. They’d spent years together rolling in the fields and soaring through the sky, soaking in each other’s company. Rick provided something that Daryl had never experienced before—Rick was sunshine and honey and fresh air. He was everything Daryl loved.

            _Mine. Love. Protect. Mine._

            Daryl had watched Rick through the years grow from a boy and into a man—from a stranger to the dragon’s greatest treasure.

            “Goodnight, Daryl,” Rick yawned as he stroked his limp hand along the line of Daryl’s jaw, pulling Daryl back into the present moment, “Sweet dreams.”

            Daryl purred as he nuzzled his head against Rick’s shoulder.

            “Goodnight, Rick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not the most pleased with this short story, but it'll do. Perhaps I'll come back to it another time.


	4. Babe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "‘Sides, who said I didn’t need rescuin’, Babe?”

            Strolling down the chip aisle Rick can’t help but groan as he looks for the specific brand of salsa that Andrea had demanded they pick up for their New Year’s Eve party. Rick had agreed to host the party at his place, but truth be told he was nervous about having so many people over for the night—or rather, more specifically, having Daryl Dixon over.

            Sure, Rick and Daryl had been close friends since their early days in college, always spending time in each other’s company and sticking close like gum stuck on hair, but there was a recent shift in their dynamic. Everything had been great between them until Rick started to realize that he cared for Daryl as more than just a friend; that he wanted to touch and know Daryl with more intent than just as a college buddy. That's when it all went tits up and Rick turned into a stuttering mess around the guy.

            “You should just tell him how you feel.” Maggie had talked his ear off once he’d confided in her. He remembers how the farm girl crossed her arms and looked at him like an exasperated mother scolding her child. _Just tell him the truth_. It was easier said than done. Besides, she'd never had to deal with the same fumbling realization—her and Glenn knew from the moment they laid eyes on each other that they were meant to be star-crossed lovers.

            But everything was cool. Rick could keep secrets—he was a cop, after all. Daryl never had to know.

            So he buried everything deep beneath the many layers of his contained apathy and continued on like he always did. Rick wasn’t willing to lose Daryl over something as stupid as an unrequited love confession.

            “Cashier to the front register, please.” The sound of static and a muffled voice over the store’s intercom tugs Rick back into reality, and he slowly swerves his shopping cart beside the stocked shelves of chip dip and salsa.

            _Pace… Newman’s_ … _Xochitl_ …

            “Tostito’s Chunky!” Rick victoriously proclaims under his breath as he grabs for three jars of the stuff. He knew how much Andrea and Michonne loved the stuff along with queso and Nutella. He can't help the smirk that creeps up on him as he thinks about how perfect those two were for each other. Friends to lovers. Maybe that could happen for him someday...

            As he’s thoughtlessly loading the jars into his cart, Rick overhears the sound of a familiar voice coming from the next aisle over.

            “Look, I said I wasn’t interested.”

            And suddenly Rick is more than interested. He would would recognize that voice anywhere. He's studied it for years; its smooth southern appeal and gravel-timbre rang through his ears like a dinner bell after fasting. That voice belonged to Daryl Dixon.

            “C’mon, sugar, how ‘bout just one night?” Rick hears another guy speak; his tone is persistent and aggressive.

            Immediately Rick’s clutching the handle of his shopping cart and beginning to make his way out of the chip aisle to see what's going on. He keeps his ear cocked and his eyes alert as he makes his way past the shelves. There's a worry settling deep in his gut for every second that drags on without him being able to see his friend.

            “Can’t you take a hint, buddy?” Rick hears Daryl hiss, and the hairs on the back of Rick's neck stand at full alert as he’s quickening pace and hurriedly turning past the corner and into the neighboring aisle.

            Rick can see Daryl’s back facing him, all broad shoulders and messy hair wrapped in his usual bun. Daryl's wearing his work boots, mindlessly tapping his foot against the worn down linoleum tiles, and Rick can see that he's just about ready to throw a punch. He can see that his friend is on edge, the hunter’s stance is wide and his arms are crossed as he’s staring up at the taller guy standing in front of him—a leer on his face clear as day.

            “What? I don’t see you getting any better offers than this.” The other guy mocks as he steps closer to Daryl, intimidating the annoyed hunter with his extra height, “Just give me your number.”

            “Look, I said—”

            “Ah, Daryl, there you are! I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you, Babe. Thought I lost you back in the green beans.” Rick surprises Daryl as he quietly sneaks up behind him to wrap a possessive arm around his friend's waist, “Who’s your new friend?”

            Rick can sense Daryl tensing beneath his touch, but he hopes his friend knows him well enough by now to just play along and go with it. Daryl doesn’t disappoint.

            The hunter leans into Rick’s frame and places a calloused palm atop Rick’s own, “Sorry, Rick, guess I got myself lost. Ain’t used to these Whole Food-type places yet,” Daryl’s looking at Rick with curiosity and a fake smile plastered across his expression as he continues, “N’ this is Pete.”

            Rick nods and kindly reaches out his hand in a welcoming offer, “Nice t’ meet you, Pete.”

            "Rick, huh?" Pete awkwardly shakes his hand, "Daryl failed to mention you."

            Rick can feel Daryl shift in his hold as he sends the other man a lethal glare.

            The cop soothes calms the man in his arms by rubbing small circles into the small of his back, "Must not've thought you were important enough to mention it to, I suppose."

            And then everything turns tense like an old western showdown as Pete silently takes the insult. But Rick's not going to give him any chance to rebound.

            Stepping back from the handshake, Rick looks back to Daryl and smiles, “Well, Darling, think we got everything we needed. How about we head on out?”

            “Sounds good to me.” Daryl hums.

            Just as Rick’s about to let go of his hold on Daryl’s waist, his friend surprises him by turning in his arms and looking up at him with the most beautiful blue eyes. Rick's breath catches in his throat as he's staring down at the most gorgeous creature on the planet, and he doesn't even realize that his friend is slowly getting closer and closer, until...

            He's kissing Rick. On the lips.

            And then just like that, Daryl saunters away with his basket of beer in hand and leaves Rick standing there like a silent idiot to work his way out of the remaining mess.

            After a moment of standing like a dumbstruck asshole, Rick swiftly nods to the other man, “Was nice meeting you, Pete.”

            Rick quickly turns to follow after his friend, leaving Pete behind to glare at him as if Rick had just stolen his homecoming court title. He pays for his items and races out to the parking lot where he knows he's bound to find Daryl leaning against his Triumph like some old-school bad boy. When Rick spots him, Daryl's leaning against his bike, just as predicted, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and sunglasses covering his sharp eyes. Rick can't stop himself from blushing as he approaches his friend to talk.

            “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” Rick’s trying to explain his reasoning for budding into Daryl’s earlier confrontation, “But it didn’t seem like he was goin’ to leave you alone and I didn't like the way he was talkin' to you. I just thought that maybe I could help by—”

            Daryl does it again.

            His lips. Are on. Rick’s mouth.

            All the oxygen in the world is stolen from him. The cop shuts up immediately.

            “Shut up. Rick, weren’t no big deal, so no need to apologize.” Daryl laughs, and it gives Rick some relief from the growing tension he’d felt building in his chest.

            Rick watches as Daryl tosses the butt onto the asphalt and hops on his bike, throwing one leg over the seat before gripping the handlebars—the most tantalizing image of dangerous beauty Rick's ever known. His tongue is caught and his breath has been stolen, but Rick's heart flutters faster than the speed of light when he sees Daryl giving him the biggest grin of his lifetime accompanied with a playful wink. Rick recognized there was something there between them that was more than just joking sarcasm. It felt like a chance. Almost like a quiet request for something. A subtle confession.

            “‘Sides, who said I didn’t need rescuin’, _Babe_?”


	5. Vows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick knew there was once a time when the man standing before him at the altar wasn’t Daryl Dixon.
> 
> prompt: "Imagine at your OTP’s wedding, person A says their vows and then person B surprises A by saying their vows in A’s first language, which B hadn’t known. B had studied and learned the language special to surprise A."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Totally never over the idea of Murphy MacManus as Daryl Dixon. Go ahead. Fight me.

            Rick knew there was once a time when the man standing before him at the altar wasn’t Daryl Dixon.

            It’d taken sleepless nights and countless run-ins with death until the hunter had opened up to him—told him every little secret Rick would’ve never known if it weren’t for the alcohol on Daryl’s loose lips and their bodies between the sheets.

            But he’d learned that his hunter was something special.

            His hunter was born into the MacManus name—an Irish family of Catholic faith.

            He’d done things, terrible things that required blood to be spilled by his hand.

            Aside from Merle, he had an older brother once—a twin—named Connor. They were each other’s everything before the world had gotten too caught up in their lives and ripped them apart by their chains.

            But that was all in the past.

            Now Rick was about to become Daryl’s everything.

            Rick might not have known Daryl before the outbreak, but he knew the man now. He knew that he was a good, honest man that cared for his people more so than for himself. His hunter was faithful, loyal, and loved without boundary. Rick didn’t need proof of the past. He knew that his hunter was pure and gentle—always had been.

            He couldn’t replace the past, but he could help build the future.

            But the past was important. It had nothing to do with a person’s worth in these times, but the weight of years still carried like a heavy boulder upon a man’s shoulder. Memories were important. Memories followed.

            Rick had woken one too many times to the echoes of quiet sobs as Daryl cradled his rosary tight against his chest and whispered his apologies in his first tongue. Rick never understood what was said, but it always sounded so sad on his hunter’s lips.

            He knew that Daryl missed his past—his family and his roots.

            But he also knew that they were excited for their new future together.

            So with that thought in mind, before their gathered audience of family and friends, Rick tenderly took hold of Daryl’s hand in his as he began to speak his vows.

            “I, Richard Thomas Grimes,” Rick spoke with clarity and confidence as he held Daryl tightly, “in ainm an spiorad Dia beo taobh istigh de dúinn go léir,”

            He smiled at the surprise evident on the hunter’s face. Throughout all the nights he’d crept away to Deanna’s library, Rick had managed to not tell a single soul that he’d been secretly learning Daryl’s first language as a wedding surprise, “tá an domhan ar chúrsaí taobh istigh mo chuid fola agus an grá ina gcónaí laistigh de mo chroí, a ghlacann tú, Daryl Dixon, mo lámh, mo chroí, agus mo spiorad, a bheith ar mo cheann atá roghnaithe.”

            There were tears in Daryl’s eyes and Rick knew they were tears of joy and thanks. There was no sadness to be found on this altar upon which they stood.

            “Le fonn agus bheith inmhianaithe ag tú, a bhfuil tú, agus a bheith ina sheilbh ag tú, gan pheaca nó náire, ionas gur féidir naught ann i an íonacht mo ghrá duit. Geallaim chun grá agat go hiomlán agus go hiomlán gan srianadh, i breoiteachta agus i sláinte, in go leor agus i mbochtanas, sa saol agus ina dhiaidh, i gcás inarb linn freastal, cuimhnigh, agus is breá arís. Ní bheidh mé ag iarraidh a athrú leat ar bhealach ar bith. Beidh mé meas tú, do chreidimh, do dhaoine, agus do bealaí.”

            Rick watched as Daryl wiped at his flowing tears with the back of his hand, trying desperately to keep his composure until the end of the ceremony. He wanted to see his hunter smile.

            “Ní féidir liom fanacht a fháil tú i leaba anocht.” Rick teasingly whispered as he gave Daryl a giant shit-eating grin.

            Daryl playfully shoved at Rick’s shoulder and laughed.

            This was worth everything to Rick.

            When Rick finished, he could hear the whispered confusion amongst their guests as they all wondered what had been said and what importance it carried between the two men.

            They didn’t need to know. This was for Daryl. For Murphy.

            By the time it was Daryl’s turn the hunter had wiped his tears and sucked in a breath of air. His eyes momentarily darted across the blurred faces of their friends sitting in the church pews before he tightened his grip on Rick’s fingers. With their hands joined once more, the hunter looked up at Rick with piercing blue eyes that spoke of comradery and unconditional love and devotion. It made Rick’s heart swell.

            “I, Daryl Dixon, take you, Richard T. Grimes, to be my husband, secure in the knowledge that you will be my constant friend, my faithful partner in life, and my one true love.” Daryl’s breath caught and he fumbled to recollect his words. The crowd watched him with tears in their eyes and smiles on their lips, “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I promise to love and honor you for the rest of my days.”

            Their faces were both split with unrestricted grins and tear-stained cheeks as they looked into each other’s eyes and listened to Father Gabriel finish the ceremony, “We have heard your vows and your promises of faithful love… I think,” the priest chuckled as he gave Rick a curious glance, “I, by the virtue vested in me, declare you both to be wed. May you be blessed in all ways for as long as you both live. You may now seal this union with a kiss.”

            Rick could barely wait to dive forward into the most passionate kiss of his lifetime. Daryl’s lips were warm and welcoming—like home. Time stood still for them in that moment.

As their lips locked, their guests all cheered with joy and congratulations.

            Daryl was the first to break the kiss, pulling away from his new husband to hold a loving palm against the back of Rick’s neck. He flirtatiously whispered, “Tá tú leathcheann ollmhór!”

            Rick beamed at him and dived in for another amorous kiss.

            They were together now; their pasts and futures finally intertwined in matrimony.

            This was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I used good ol' Google Translate, so we can definitely expect a hearty portion of fuck ups in these translations, but here we go...
> 
> Rick's vows: "I, Richard Thomas Grimes, in the name of the spirit of God that resides within us all, by the life that courses within my blood and the love that resides within my heart, take you, Daryl Dixon, to my hand, my heart, and my spirit, to be my chosen one. To desire you and be desired by you, to possess you, and be possessed by you, without sin or shame, for naught can exist in the purity of my love for you. I promise to love you wholly and completely without restraint, in sickness and in health, in plenty and in poverty, in life and beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I shall not seek to change you in any way. I shall respect you, your beliefs, your people, and your ways."
> 
> "Ní féidir liom fanacht a fháil tú i leaba anocht." --- "I can not wait to get you in bed tonight."
> 
> "Tá tú leathcheann ollmhór!" --- "You huge idiot!"


	6. Ultraviolence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He hit me and it felt like a kiss_   
>  _Reminded me of when we were kids_

            Every night he needs his fix.

            Shane’s the drug and he’s the addict.

            “Daryl, come here.”

            And every night he’s crawling on all fours, dragging blood and dirt across the field until he’s kneeling before Shane, soaking in the heat of his dark stare that roams over his shivering form. They’re hidden under the cloak of darkness, and he looks up into eyes filled with fury and possession—a familiar look he’s known all his life. He kisses the man’s feet with ardor and appeasement, mouth gentle with each slow press.

            He’s eager to please and ready to obey.

            Shane gives him a dangerous glance before his boots dig into Daryl’s sides, their sting a passionate kiss against his bruising flesh.

            He has to remind himself that he can do better.

            He catches his breath before reaching out with calloused fingers and leans in with poison-stained lips. He follows Shane’s lead.

            Shane toys with him like a ball of yarn, unraveling him piece by piece and inch by inch. It’s a sick game, but he knows the rules—he’ll learn to win someday.

            A fist grips his hair and a large hand hits his cheek, splitting his lip like he's a cheap whore. He’s pushed low into the mud, breathing in the scent of wet earth and shredded grass as he’s openly fucked by the only man that’s looked at him with lust-hungry eyes since his Daddy. Thick fingers wrap around his pale neck like a rosary, and hot cum washes over his backside like a baptism. He’s seeing stars.

            The noises that slip from between his swollen lips are like the screaming sirens of his youth, but he ignores them, too caught up in his momentary ecstasy. This was always his lullaby.

            It all reminds him of when he was a kid.

            They always make it dirty and keep it a secret. The only evidence is hidden away beneath the layers of grime and insecurities he carries with him throughout the day. There are never any love letters, never any hums of endearment. There’s just the subtle threat whispered in his ear every night before he slips away into the velvet night.

            This is his understood definition of love.


	7. Unexpectedly Expecting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe they should’ve clarified things earlier, but really it wasn’t anyone’s business what happened behind their closed doors. People should've known that they never did fit stereotypes very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This snippet involves fluffy mpreg. Kindly go away if you don't want to read. Unbeta'd.

            Maybe they should’ve clarified things earlier, but really it wasn’t anyone’s business what happened behind their closed doors. People should've known that they never did fit stereotypes very well.

            “We’re having a baby.”

            Rick announced as he held Daryl’s hand. The two of them were standing in the center of a circle of their friends, everyone seated in their living room and chatting happily amongst themselves.

            “Congratulations!” Everyone cheered and smiled.

            They all cooed over Rick; the carriers of their group giving him advice on how to deal with the expected morning sickness and swollen ankles. Rick just bit his lip and nodded, giving his thanks.

            “Hey, man, congrats!” Shane patted at Daryl’s shoulder.

            “That’s it, boy! Always knew my brother had it in him t’ pass on the Dixon name,” Merle laughed as he joined himself on Daryl’s other side, “Never thought it’d be with Officer Friendly, though!”

            Quiet as ever, Daryl just huffed and went with the flow.

            But it was when Carol, her aura glowing motherly and kind, approached Rick that broke the camel's back.

            “Aww, Rick, how far along are you?” She asked, pressing her hand against the flatness of his belly.

            Flustered, Rick shook his head, “Oh, _I’m_ not carrying.”

            Everyone grew quiet and looked to both Rick and Daryl with budding confusion.

            “So is there a surrogate?” Andrea piped up.

            “Will we get to meet them?” Maggie asked.

            Rick continued to shake his head slowly as he waited for their confused murmurs and questions to quiet once again.

            “We don’t have a surrogate.” Rick tried to clarify.

            _Was it that far of a stretch for them to see the truth in front of them?_

            “Well then how in the world are you having a baby?” Lori crossed her arms with apparent annoyance and sighed.

            Rick grinned and tilted his head toward the hunter standing silent in the corner of the room. Everyone’s gaze followed the movement.

            “What…” Glenn looked stunned as he glanced back and forth between both Rick and Daryl.

            “This is a joke, right?” Shane whistled.

            Daryl blushed; he was beginning to fidget nervously under everyone’s sudden attention.

            “Yer just pullin’ our leg, right, baby brother?” Merle awkwardly joked.

            Daryl shook his head as he walked over to be by Rick’s side for support.

            Merle just looked at him with utter shock.

            “But we thought…”

            Sure, everyone always thought it was the other way around. Rick was all thin frame and grace while Daryl’s bulk always intimidated anyone that crossed his path. Rick was gentle and caring while Daryl was stoic and often perceived as harsh. But beneath all of that, Rick was a fierce protector and a dedicated provider while Daryl was a tender lover and a nurturing presence. There were always signs that pointed to their truth. People just didn’t notice them all that often.

            “Ain’t nobody ever asked.” Daryl grumbled as his fingers played with the hem of his shirt.

            “So you’re a… carrier?” Glenn carefully asked.

            Daryl nodded stiffly.

            Silence.

            “Well I think that’s wonderful news!” Carol’s chipper voice broke the quiet tension like a stone through a glass window.

            Instantly everyone’s attitude changed and they were suddenly all surrounding Daryl, pulling him into warm hugs and soft praise.

            “Congratulations, Daryl!” Maggie cheered as she wrapped her arms around Daryl’s chest.

            Daryl blushed as he returned her touch, “Thanks.”

            The rest of the night continued in a joyous flow with everyone congratulating both of the new expectant parents. Carol cooed over the slight paunch of Daryl’s belly while Michonne shared war stories about her experience with Andre. Lori and Andrea both started rattling off potential names while Maggie warned Daryl about what foods to stay away from. Glenn, being the only other male carrier in their group of friends, excitedly asked Daryl about what his pregnancy had been like so far—as if he were trying to take notes to prep for a future exam (maybe the Grimes weren’t going to be the only ones that would be expecting this year…). Shane and Merle happily patted the hunter on the back, careful now of not being too rough on the expectant carrier.

            And while all of this was happening, Daryl was still curled close against Rick’s side. The officer held him near and gently brushed his thumb along the bare skin of the hunter’s arm before he leaned over to place a chaste kiss against Daryl’s cheek. Rick smiled as he lowered his hand to rest over his hunter’s midsection.

            “Congratulations, Darlin’.”

            Expected or not, everything was perfect.


	8. Genghis Khan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I know there's no form_   
>  _And no labels to put on_   
>  _To this thing we keep_   
>  _And dip into when we need_   
>  _And I don't have the right_   
>  _To ask where you go at night_   
>  _But the waves hit my head_   
>  _To think someone's in your bed_
> 
> _I get a little bit Genghis Khan_  
>  _I don't want you to get it on_  
>  _With nobody else but me_  
>  _With nobody else but me_  
>  _I get a little bit Genghis Khan_  
>  _Don't want you to get it on_  
>  _With nobody else but me_  
>  _With nobody else but me_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously inspired by Miike Snow's _Genghis Khan_.  
>  Automatic gift for my lovely friend/wife, Nicole. <3 Unbeta'd.

            Yeah, he knows how Rick looks at Jessie Anderson. He always knows how Rick looks.

            But the way he looks at her is unmistakable. Lustful.

            He used to look at Daryl like that.

            When they were alone at night and licking at each other's wounds—each other's emptiness.

            It makes Daryl’s skin crawl.

            He thought there’d been something between them. Through all the glances and tender touches—through all the midnight fucks—Daryl thought there was something more hidden within the subtleties of their... relationship.

            It was unspoken, but the contact was there as a constant comfort. It was in the way their lips would brush against the stubble of their cheeks when they whispered low and in the quiet of the night; the way their eyes openly undressed each other from head to toe without care of anyone catching them. It was in the way Rick called out his name every night when he touched himself with Daryl just outside of his bedroom window like a stray cat looking for a good show. It was in the way their bodies collided late at night when all the lights were out; how the stress of the day would find them in each other's arms as an anchor for their sanity. Daryl allowed it—encouraged it, even. He wanted to be that stress relief Rick so desperately craved—that thing Rick dipped into whenever it was needed.

            But there aren’t labels on what they have.

            And Daryl knows he doesn’t have the right to feel possessive over whatever this thing was that they shared.

            But there’s an emotion that Daryl just can’t simplify, and it coils low in his belly. It makes his head spin when the waves of anger hit and remind him of the parasite that's slowly creeping into his life and chewing down the walls of his self-constructed haven. He’s never been a man of greed, but he knew there'd come a day when he could be someone selfish. Someone obscene.

            Daryl watches as Rick touches her.

            His long calloused fingers are brushing against the soft supple flesh of her forearm just before he pulls away to turn down the front stairs of her porch.

            Daryl growls.

            _That’s it_.

            The hunter’s been stalking Rick, soundlessly following him around the town like a ghost in the forest. But as the officer walks back to the sanctuary of his home, Daryl knows he will not keep his presence a silent secret.

            When the doorknob turns, Daryl pushes Rick forward and quickly shuts out the world behind them.

            “What the hell, Daryl?” Rick gasps, surprised from the sudden and unexpected push past the threshold.

            Daryl watches him with sharp eyes like a bird of prey.

            "Tired of you touchin' her.”

            Rick tilts his head and looks at him as if Daryl’s suddenly grown two heads, “What?”

            He knows Rick is thick-headed at times—can’t see what’s clear as day through all the garbled shit stuffing his battered noggin. But Daryl will make Rick see.

            The hunter steps closer, leading the other man backwards until Rick’s flush against the fireplace mantle. Their breath is heavy and there’s already beads of sweat decorating the crowns of their heads, but Daryl's not going to stop.

            “Ain’t nobody gonna give you what I can give, Rick.”

            Daryl takes that moment to wrap his fingers around each of Rick’s wrists and lean forward to lick a thin layer of saliva across the other man’s pulse point. He can feel Rick shiver beneath his ministration.

            “Ain’t nobody ever treat you like I do,” Daryl purrs, “Can’t warm your bed like I can.”

            He can hear Rick gasp for breath as Daryl’s teeth begin to rake over his bobbing Adam’s apple.

            “Want me to touch you like you know I do?”

            It’s a slow start, but Rick’s nodding under his touch.

            “Make you feel needed like I always do?”

            Daryl thinks Rick’s head might pop off with how enthusiastically his shaking it up and down.

            “Gonna let me be selfish, Rick?”

            Daryl pulls away before he’s answered. He saunters over to the couch and leans against the plush armrest as he watches Rick squirm in place.

            Rick whines at the loss of contact, "Daryl...” Rick pants, stumbling forward to stand before the hunter, "I didn't—”

            Daryl shushes him.

            “You don’t get to play with me like that,” Daryl hisses as his hand reaches out to tug down the fly on Rick’s pants, “Ain’t gonna be no one else in your bed. Or in your head.”

            Rick silently nods once more.

            “Don’t want you t' get it on with nobody else but me.” Daryl emphasizes his seriousness as his thumbs catch on the waistband of both Rick's underwear and pants. He drags the garments down Rick’s legs toward the floor, leaving the man standing bare from his waist down.

            Daryl kneels in front of Rick and looks up at the officer, “Only me.”

            Rick’s eyes are finally clear and Daryl can see the honesty behind them when Rick speaks, “Only you, Daryl."

            Daryl grins before he leans forward to collect Rick in his mouth, his velvet-smooth flesh warm and tempting against the hunter’s tongue. Daryl sucks him down to the root until his cheeks are hollowed and his breathing has stopped. It’s painful, but it’s _so good._

_Nobody else but me_ , Daryl thinks to himself.

            One of his hands snake around to play with the officer’s balls between his pinched fingers and Daryl can’t help but salivate at the sound of Rick’s strained moans dripping between his soft pink lips. Daryl uses his other free hand to gently smooth over the hairs on the man’s legs and belly, tickling Rick with every subtle trail of his fingers. And as the hunter begins to move himself forward and back with a well-practiced and steady rhythm, he watches as Rick’s toes begin to curl and his length hardens with interest. The flavor of Rick on the hunter’s tongue stirs something inside of Daryl and he fights the need to swallow.

            Daryl allows them another moment of playful bliss before slipping his lips free, uncaring if he's left Rick still wanting and waiting. Rick whines at the loss, hips still uselessly bucking into the empty air for needed friction.

            “Daryl…”

            With the taste of Rick’s precum still salty in his mouth, Daryl licks his lips and asks, “Nobody else but me, right?”

            Rick steps forward to cup his palms against the back of Daryl's head and neck, “Nobody else but you, Daryl.”

            They both kiss like frantic teenagers making out in the high school locker room.

            “Good,” Daryl purrs as he pulls away from the heated contact, “Let’s take this upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I spent the day in D.C. yesterday and didn't get home until super late... And today I'm going to a con to meet Josh McDermitt and Michael Cudlitz, so I can't say if I'll be posting another makeup story tonight. Sorry! (╥﹏╥)


	9. Playtime with Daddy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Daryl’s playing, he knows his Daddy loves him. He knows his Daddy will kiss it all better when everything’s all said and done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Incest, feminization, spanking  
> Unbeta'd

            This was their game.

            Crawl into the bedroom and pull out the toy box.

            Let big brother do whatever he wanted.

            Daryl was his doll to play with.

            Merle would dress him up with cream satin panties decorated with rows of pink lace ruffles and watch Daryl squirm beneath his attention.

            “Lookin’ so pretty for me, Darylina.”

            Daryl would blush and shake his head, but the strain against the satin front of his knickers revealed his true feelings about receiving Merle’s praise.

            Merle would dress him in a tight pink garter belt with thigh-high cream stockings—the frilly pink trim around the edges of the hosiery rubbed between Daryl’s thighs and made him gasp at the delicacy.

            And just before he’d crawl on all fours over to the edge of Merle’s bed, he’d slip on pale pink negligee. The mesh fabric was enough to give Daryl the illusion of coverage, but thin enough to unveil the silhouette of every curve on his frame.

            “C’mon over and give your Daddy some sweet sugar, baby doll.”

            Merle would croon and pat at the side of the bed until Daryl crawled to kneel before his feet. He’d kiss each foot with equal adoration as if his brother was the reincarnation of Christ.

            His brother would stroke calloused fingers through the short blond strands of Daryl’s hair as he looked down with steel-grey eyes and a mischievous grin.

            “Give me a spin.”

            And Daryl would get to his feet to stand before Merle, still watching his every move, and twirl himself around in a slow-spinning circle so that all the dainty details of their playtime could be admired. Daryl loved the way the diaphanous fabric of the negligee would flutter through the air as he turned; loved the way the fine ribbons on his stockings bounced with each step he took.

            Then just like clockwork, on the third spin Merle would reach out his arms and grab him by the waist to pull him into his vacant lap. He’d sit against the rising tent of Merle’s slacks as his brother ran strong hands over the graceful fabrics covering his body. Rough fingers would trace the outline of his nipples through the translucent material while familiar lips sucked a possessive trail along his neck and collar.

            “You’re my pretty baby, aren’t you?”

            And Daryl would always shyly nod, “Yeah.”

            “Gonna be good and let Daddy spank you?”

            “Yeah…”

            As if he weighed as much as a feather, Merle would turn him over to rest on his stomach with his panty-clad ass in the air. Their crotches would rub against each other as they adjusted their positions, and only the layers of satin and denim kept them from feeling flesh on flesh.

            “Been a bad girl, Darylina,” Merle grinned as he snaked a hand beneath the thin fabric of his panties to squeeze at Daryl’s ass cheek, “Can't have you back-talking your Daddy."

            Merle's fingers tickled at furled ring of muscle between Daryl's legs, "You know what that means.”

            Daryl purred. He knew.

            A swift hand pulled down on the satin garment to drag them beneath Daryl’s knees, effectively exposing Daryl’s rear end, “Stay still and I’ll take care of ya. Got it?”

            “Yes, Daddy.”

            The first smack was always the most exhilarating. It’s like peach cobbler and tequila—sweet with a hellova’ kick. Daryl savors the sensation as he feels his backside redden and swell from the contact. He hoped it bruised in the shape of Merle’s handprint.

            A second smack. A third. A fourth.

            Daryl could get behind this—when he and Merle play, there’s a certain headspace they escape to. When Daryl’s playing, he knows his Daddy loves him. He knows his Daddy will kiss it all better when everything’s all said and done.

            Five. Six. Seven.

            It always starts to sting after seven. But it’s always so good.

            Daryl remembers to keep quiet and breathe through his nose before each hit. He concentrates on the heat pooling between his legs.

            Eight. Nine. Ten.

            After ten Merle’s hand stopped.

            “You did so good for me, Darlyina,” Merle crooned as he gently rubbed his hand overtop the sore flesh of Daryl’s bottom.

            Daryl preened under the praise and wiggled himself further into the warm space of Merle’s lap. He loved feeling his brother’s—his Daddy’s—hands touch him with such tender care.

            “Always such a good girl for your Daddy.”


	10. My Silent Anchor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl uses her as an anchor, a visual point to keep his eyes glued to as he’s used again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-con, rape, rape aftermath

            Before they came for him, Daryl had begged her to play dead, to just keep her eyes shut and her knife close. But the only thing he sees as the strangers’ hands roam over his body are Carol’s crystal blue eyes staring at him.

            If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was the one being held down and fucked into with the force of a freight train. Her eyes look so sad.

            Daryl uses her as an anchor, a visual point to keep his eyes glued to as he’s used again and again. He stares ahead and takes in the way her body is crumpled against a stack of rail beams; her head is hidden beneath the structure’s shadow and her hand is on the hilt of her blade. He silently mouths for her to stay still.

            After the third round, he’d barely been able to feel a thing past his hips. He thought maybe they’d fucked him into paralysis and it was only a matter of time before he’d be split in half. He ignored their guttural moans and heinous dirty talk as they plowed into him one man after the next. He kept focused on her, making sure that he held their attention.

            When it’s all said and done, Daryl’s left naked and huddled in a puddle of drying cum and spit. His legs quiver and his breathing is shallow as he waits for his abusers to end his misery with a bullet to the head.

            He’s surprised when they thank him for the ‘good time’ before leaving him lying in the dirt and gravel.

            Daryl waits until they’re out of ear shot, far past the rusting tracks and off towards the inner city, before he rolls onto his knees and curls in on himself in a fit of shame. He tries to reach for his torn jeans, but they’re too far away for him to grab without sparking the pain that’s burrowed deep inside. He closes his eyes and cries.

            There’s a gentle hand on his back within seconds, soothing him like a mother only could. Carol’s shushing him with calm whispers and gentle strokes against his bruised flesh. Daryl’s choking on his hiccups when he feels the fabric of his denim slacks being pressed against his fist with timid care.

            Daryl takes a moment to wipe at his tears before attempting to stand on shaking legs. When he rises, Carol’s there by his side, keeping him steady as he wobbles on his feet. She doesn’t mention the blood and cum that runs down his legs, dripping over fresh scrapes and cuts made from the strangers’ ropes and knives. He’s thankful for her lack of judgement.

            With her help, Daryl dresses himself in the tattered remains of his clothes. Pieces of fabric are torn and hanging off his frame; the zipper on his jeans is broken and he’s more than thankful when Carol passes him her belt to help tie the pieces together around his hips.

            She waits until he is ready, a constant guide by his side with her open embrace and observant gaze. When Daryl finds the strength to swallow his pride, he reaches out to lean against her shoulder as he limps forward.

            A part of him is thankful for having her there for him. Daryl wouldn’t have wanted anyone else to witness what he’d just been subjected to if he could help it. He knows he can trust her to help carry this burden—this secret between them that’s bound to be buried with their corpses six feet below in their graves.

            As they face west he takes hold of her hand. His voice doesn't sound like his own, but he knows she won't say anything to poke fun at it.

            “Thanks.”

            Carol just gives him a single nod and the most delicate of kisses atop the crown of his forehead. Daryl struggles not to flinch even though he knows he would never suffer pain inflected from her loving touch.

            They walk together in undisturbed silence.


	11. Little Pig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me, little pig,” a thumb presses between his lips and forces his mouth to split with yielding invitation, “Who’s about to own you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: non-con/dub-con blow jobs
> 
> Unbeta'd

            “Who are you?”

            That voice is a thunderstorm; its timbre low and dangerous as peppered stubble brushes his ear.

            “Daryl.”

            The man’s grinning like a cat when he twirls the bat at his side, fingers waggling a distinct ‘no’ as the distance between them lessens more and more.

            “C’mon, darlin’, I think we can do a hellova lot better than that,” that menacing voice purrs against his cheek as a strong hand grips his shoulder, “I want you on your knees.”

            And he’s being submerged in a sea of dominance as his knees buckle beneath the weight of his bruised flesh and the force of this man’s power. He swore he’d never kneel, but he’s shivering as he looks up at haunting eyes—the eyes of the man that killed his friends.

            “Let’s try this again…” The tone is sultry and dangerous as it leaves soft lips, “Who are you?”

            He holds eye contact for the moment he gains the courage to speak, “Daryl.”

            There’s a slap across his swollen mouth, he tastes leather and blood against his tongue.

            His vision goes black.

            He hears the sound of a zipper being opened.

            There’s a blunt weight pressing against the corner of his mouth.

            He can taste the saltiness of precum as it oozes into the split crevice of his lip.

            There’s a gloved hand suddenly tangled in the knots of his hair and his head is forced back with an unexpected jerk.

            His vision comes back to him in time for him to see the man standing above him, fingers stroking along the thickness of a hardening length.

            It looks like a completely new kind of monster.

            “Tell me, little pig,” a thumb presses between his lips and forces his mouth to split with yielding invitation, “Who’s about to own you?”

            He holds back the whimper forming in the back of his throat as he watches the blunt length, pulsing veins and angry tip, make its way toward the gape of his mouth.

            “You can tell me later.”

            It slides inside with smooth ministration, its girth scraping against the edges of his parted teeth. It’s pushed forward until its tip hits the back of his throat and he’s struggling not to gag around its breadth. He relaxes as precum dribbles down his throat and his eyes burn from lack of oxygen.

            It’s slow going, but he takes it one second at a time as his head is pulled back and forth by the roots of his hair. He focuses on curling his tongue beneath the intruding weight and breathing when the time allows for clear passage. He waits to hear the pleased moans pour from the man’s lips.

            “Mmm…”

            It’s expected when the pace quickens and everything turns from teasing to violent as he’s choking continuously on the impaling dick in his mouth. He knows he’s crying, hot tears smearing the dirt on his face like smudged mascara, but he can’t stop.

            When the grip in his hair releases its hold, he crumples backwards into a pile of defeated blood and tears. He’s still fighting to contain his tears when he feels the hot drizzle of release shower him from above, his face and chest painted in white cum.

            “Or you could tell me now,” a finger pokes at his lip to swipe at a dribble of spunk, “Who owns you, Daryl?”

            It’s a hard thing to swallow, even more so than the intrusion he’d just been victim to, but he knows the benefits of biding one’s time.

            He lowers his head in submission and mumbles.

            “Negan.”


	12. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His monsters were something more human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied sexual/child abuse, dub-con, non-con, underage
> 
> Unbeta'd

            “Keep quiet or the monsters will get you.”

            Merle used to always tell him that every night before he'd slip under Daryl’s sheets and turn out the lights.

            His brother’s fingers were always so cold when they’d reach for him.

            When Daryl was younger he’d thought that monsters were creatures with longs claws and sharp fangs; he’d thought they were unknown beasts of spectacular size that were just waiting to crawl out from under his bed to snatch him away into the darkness of the night.

            It wasn’t until after his momma died that he’d started thinking differently about the hidden things that went ‘bump’ in the night.

            He realized at an early age that not all monsters were covered in scales or decorated with venomous quills.

            His monsters were something more human.

            He remembered the first time he’d thought his father’s booming voice and cracking belt buckle sounded more ferocious than a mammoth’s feral roar. His daddy’s fists hit him like iron on glass, and he’d started to assume being gobbled alive by a leviathan would be less painful.

            His brother’s touches stung him like barbed wire and his soothing whispers sounded more like chanted hymns of damnation against the outer shell of his ear every night when he'd have Daryl stroke him to completion with his smaller palms. He remembered wishing at times that Merle’s ghosted breath against the nape of his neck was instead dragon’s fire licking at his flesh—he’d rather be in ashes than be in his bed.

            Daryl realized at a young age that it didn’t matter how good he was when the lights turned off; that it didn’t matter how quiet he kept when the creak of his bedroom door echoed through the hall as his own kin pushed through the darkness of the space to tiptoe unwelcomed to his bedside. Nothing mattered.

            The monsters would always come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I fell behind on my ficlets... Sorry! I was out of the country for a bit visiting my boyfriend and I had a bit of writer's block. I will try to catch up! ;(


	13. Like a Dirty Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can see your pussy from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be comin' back around to correct any errors I find later. Unbeta'd...

            Honestly, he could kill Shane right about now for the amount of humiliation he felt staining his cheeks with a warm rosy flush. But he holds his tongue.

            “I can see your pussy from here.” Shane whistles from where he’s leaning against the trunk of an old tree, picking his nails while watching Daryl thoughtlessly bending over to collect firewood.

            Shane’s eyeing him like a piece of meat—been watching him like that since he’d asked Daryl to put on the short pleated mini skirt that he’d picked up during a run in one of the neighboring towns. Shane bullied and begged until the hunter conceded to wearing the tight garment with nothing on underneath to help cover his taint.

            The thing is a light shade of pink; soft like a woman’s touch. It fits snug against his hips; the fabric stopping just around his upper thigh. It should be airy and cool to wear, but he feels so hot and bothered.

            Daryl doesn’t know why he agreed. But he did.

            “Ain’t got no pussy.” Daryl snaps

            Shane laughs, feet loud as they sloppily stamp through the crunching leaves of the forest floor, “Oh, I beg to differ.”

            Shane presses himself against the hunter’s back, making Daryl acutely aware of the building hardness tucked away within Shane’s trousers. The ex-cop’s large hands reach out to grab hold of either side of Daryl’s skirt-covered waist and runs his fingers along the pale material. He digs his nails into Daryl’s side and pulls him further into Shane’s crotch, rubbing the hunter’s bare ass against rough denim fabric.

            Daryl lets out a moan of interest.

            Shane’s hand roams downward and slips beneath the feather-light skirt to grope at a recently spanked cheek. Daryl widens his stance as he allows further admittance between his legs—he’s not disappointed when a spit-soaked finger prods at his puckered ring of muscle.

            “You got the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen, Daryl.” Shane purrs as he presses his finger further into the tight heat of the hunter’s entrance, “Looks so cute when I tickle it like this,” Shane teases as he wiggles his finger inside the hunter’s hole.

            Daryl’s mouth hangs open with unabashed pleasure and he helplessly pants as he feels himself push further down onto the intrusion of Shane’s digit. Shane seamlessly adds a second finger and begins to scissor the hunter open. Daryl bites his bottom lip to stifle his desperate whine.

            “But I bet it’d look _beautiful_ all sloppy wet and hangin’ off my dick.”

            Daryl can feel himself growing hard with desire—it was dirty and shameful, but he _loved_ hearing Shane talk to him like he was some kind of bad girl waiting to be punished.

            “How ‘bout it, Daryl?” Shane leans into the hunter’s side to nibble at the tip of his ear, “Could take you right over there. Bend you over that log and spread you wide open. Get you all wet and fucked up,” the ex-cop’s tongue traces a thin film of saliva down the length of Daryl’s neck, “Wouldn’t even have to take off your sexy lil’ skirt for me. Could get it all messed up like the dirty girl I know you are.”

            Daryl’s barely breathing ‘cause everything suddenly feels so hot and close, “Shane…”

            “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Daryl?” Shane’s hand squeezes into the meat of his upper thigh, “Yeah, you’d like that…”

            Daryl’s frantically nodding as Shane begins to lift him to carry the hunter over to the said log so that he could be fucked senseless. Daryl’s legs quiver as they’re spread open and he’s pressed low to bend over the horizontal body of the log. Shane wastes no time flipping up the delicate pink skirt to reveal the hunter’s peach-sweet bottom, his mouth diving into the furled heat only Shane was welcome to.

            Daryl kept nodding the entire time.

            _Yeah, he did like that._


	14. Dixon Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glenn’s just about ready to round the corner when he first hears it—a muffled groan that echoes through the stale air of the abandoned cellblock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: voyeurism, slight dub-con, incest

            Glenn’s just about ready to round the corner when he first hears it—a muffled groan that echoes through the stale air of the abandoned cellblock.

            “Thought I weren’t gonna get have ‘is, huh?” a voice rumbles, slurred with a thick southern accent and mix of frantic panting.

            It sounds like something is being rustled—like bedsheets and clothing. There’s the distinct noise of flesh on flesh, and Glenn can’t tell if it’s the sound of a repressed fight or something else more intimate. He has to stop for a moment to collect his thoughts just to make sure that what he's hearing is real.

            “Ya know I missed this, boy,” the same voice slurs.

            It’s a familiar voice, though not as recognized as the rest of Glenn’s group—the people he’d survived the winter with and considered his family.

            “Missed seein’ ya like this for me.”

            There’s a loud smack that rings through the cellblock, and Glenn is sure that whoever's on the receiving end is bound to have a giant bruise come morning.

            “Get offa me.” A second voice growls.

            This one is more well known to Glenn’s ear—Daryl.

            There’s a stifled grunt and another smack against bare skin before Daryl growls again, “I said get offa me, Merle!”

            _Merle?_

            Glenn’s interest is more than piqued and he can’t help but poke his head around the corner to only find one of the most unexpected sights he’d ever witnessed—Daryl’s pinned against a row of cell bars while Merle’s covering his brother’s back, groping Daryl’s bare ass with the roughness of his calloused palms.

            Glenn nearly gasps as he watches Merle press further into Daryl’s space, his colossal mass appearing intimidating against the hunter’s smaller, lither frame. He sees that Daryl is completely naked save for the winged vest still covering his trembling back, but Merle remains seemingly fully clothed as he sways closer into his brother’s warmth.

            And then there’s the pronounced sound of a zipper being pulled undone, and Glenn suddenly spies Merle lifting a hand to excitedly palm at his crotch. Daryl’s uselessly pushing back against Merle’s weight, trying to free himself from his confined position as Glenn listens to the older Dixon hock a wad of spit into his hand to rub over his aching dick.

            He knows it’s wrong, but Glenn’s absolutely mesmerized by this taboo act unfolding before his very eyes.

            “Merle, c’mon… Not now.” Daryl whines, but he’s quickly shushed as Merle slides his saliva-covered finger between his cheeks.

            “C’mon now, little brother, I know ya been wanting t’ welcome me home.”

            He’s blushing at the sight of Daryl’s ass being openly played with, but Glenn continues to watch as the older man’s knees slot between the hunter’s naked legs to help create more room for him to intrude. Daryl keeps his head shamefully pressed against the thick bars of cold steel as Glenn peeps and Merle plays.

            “Gonna get me a nice, warm Dixon welcome.” Merle drawls as his hips begin to rock forward and back into the space between Daryl’s legs.

            Daryl hisses and he leans his weight further into the cell bars, “Someone’s gonna catch us.”

            Merle laughs as he thrusts forward and brings his hands to grip at Daryl’s waist, “Then let ‘em.”

            “Merle—Ahh!” Daryl’s complaint is cut off as his brother angles another thrust into the right heat of Daryl’s entrance.

            “Now, now, Darylina,” Merle croons as he rubs his fingers into the hunter’s scarred sides, “Ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

            Glenn’s eyes are glued as he watches Daryl begin to pant and rock back into Merle’s bulk with equal enthusiasm.

            “It’s just a Dixon welcome.”


	15. The Time to Shift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d said he needed to feel comfortable; needed to feel safe in order to properly shift into his feral form. But he’d been raised in an abusive household and survived against constant discrimination and harassment, so for him it seemed as though it was something that was always easier said than done…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd

            Daryl had gone his entire life without shifting. He’d never thought it to be too much of a problem before. Sure, people would always poke and make fun of the youngest Dixon for not having a second skin, but other than their harsh words and cruel stares there’d been no real issue. He got along just fine without the added help of fur and claws.

            They’d said he needed to feel comfortable; needed to feel safe in order to properly shift into his feral form. But he’d been raised in an abusive household and survived against constant discrimination and harassment, so for him it seemed as though it was something that was always easier said than done…

            His school counselor used to pull him from class to get him to sit alone in a room to concentrate on his shifting. It never worked, though. He’d just sit in that plush armchair setup in the middle of the office for about an hour until the lunch bell rang for his release.

            For a time when he was younger he’d been jealous of everyone around him shifting between their human and feral forms like it was the most natural thing. He remembered watching Merle shift into his feral form on occasion—a mean looking ratel with curled claws and a fierce snarl—and he’d hoped that one day he’d be able to possess the same wildness; the same sureness that he’d be safe and without worry of threat.

            But as time passed he’d learned to move on and accept his difference.

            Now he didn’t give it a second thought when he’d see his packmates roaming around in their feral forms. There was no jealousy when he’d see Rick’s wolf or Michonne’s panther prowling along the streets as they patrolled the perimeter; there was no yearning to be the same when Carol nuzzled against him as a bobcat or when Glenn raced him as a fox. He’d accepted himself; accepted that the wild just wasn’t in his blood—that safety was never going to be a thing he’d find in this world.

            “Pookie!” He felt his ears twitch at the sound of Carol calling his name.

            Daryl burrowed further into the warmth of his bed, nuzzling against its soft white sheets and down-stuffed pillows. He’d allowed himself to sleep in today, just wanting to relax for a few hours before having to face the routine of his day.

            It’d been quiet in Alexandria since they’d arrived and made it their own—his people blended seamlessly into the community like long-lost family. Since Rick had been named the community’s new co-leader alongside Deanna, Daryl had been able to rest easier knowing that their defenses were now monitored on a schedule and their people were armed with protection aside from their fangs and claws. It wasn’t much, but it was something—something that helped to set his mind at ease.

            “It’s time for breakfast!” Carol’s voice echoed from the hall.

            Daryl continued to ignore the woman in favor of curling further into his bed—it’d seemed so big and comfy compared to when he’d last tucked himself in the night before.

            There was a knock at his bedroom door before its hinges groaned as Carol turned its handle. Daryl opted to feign sleep as his uninvited guest entered the room and approached his bedside.

            “Daryl, I thought you’d be up by now. I just wanted to let you know that breakfast—” Carol started to speak but quickly cut herself short as she abruptly stopped in front of the hunter’s bed, “Oh my word!” he heard Carol gasp.

There was a moment of pause before there was a sudden noise of stifled laughter.

            And then there was a gentle—albeit unusually large—finger delicately nudging his shoulder to wake.

            “Daryl?”

            He stirred from the coziness of his slumber to look up at Carol— _way up_ at Carol. She appeared to have become a giant overnight, and the sight of her unexpected size caused him to jolt awake with a squeak. He scrambled back toward his headboard and waited for Carol to explain what was happening; explain why everything around him seemed to have somehow grown at least thrice its normal size overnight.

            “Oh, Daryl, this is wonderful!” Carol smiled as she clasped her hands together in a display of motherly pride.

            He angled his head and looked at her curiously; his words for questioning somehow escaped him.

            “You’ve shifted.”

            His eyes widened with surprise.

            Forty-some years without a shift. And then suddenly it came to him.

            He figured that certainly explained why everything had seemed so different to him now. It explained the new set of senses he’d awoke with—his heightened sense of smell and hearing. It now made sense why everything was so out of proportion from when he’d been human.

            _But why was he so small?_

            He looked down at his hands—his paws—and investigated the bright coating of red fur that covered his arms. It was the same shade as Glenn’s fox fur. _Was he a fox?_ Daryl stared with wonder before looking back to Carol.

            Carol grinned once more before she stepped into the hallway for a moment and returned with a pocket mirror so that Daryl could look at himself properly, “Now go ahead and have a look at yourself.”

            Daryl’s heart raced as he timidly approached the mirror.

            _What would he find?_

_Surely he was too small for a fox, and nowhere near the size necessary for a maned wolf… So what red-furred creature had he been given as his feral form?_

            When he let his eyes glance over the mirror’s reflection, he was surprised at what he found staring back.

            A rodent.

            His reflection was that of a small red squirrel with beady black eyes and pointed fur-tipped ears. He had long black whiskers sprouting from his tiny nose and a large bushy tail that swished from side to side as he continued to stare at the mirror with fascination and awe.

            “You know, I would’ve expected something more intimidating from you…” He looked back to see Carol still smiling down at him as she spoke, “But I think this shift suits you.”

            He happily agreed. Yeah, it was an unexpected shift—especially for a Dixon, considering every single one of his relatives had wielded fangs or several-inch long claws. But predator or prey, the fact that’d he’d been able to shift at all had meant only one thing—he’d finally found security amongst his pack.

            “I’ll go tell the others about your big news!” Carol hummed as she turned for the door.

            Aside from himself, Carol knew better than anyone what it was like to be trapped in human form—she’d lived years under Ed’s thumb without the relief of shifting into her beautiful feline skin. Carol had been able to understand what an incredible feat it was to be able to finally gain control over one’s anxiety and conquer one’s fears, and he knew that he could trust her to not snuff at his personal accomplishment.

            She paused just before stepping into the hallway, briefly glancing at Daryl to give him a friendly wink before saying, “I always knew we’d make an animal of you yet.”

            Daryl felt himself smiling as he listened to her praise.

            “It’s perfect.”

            It’d been a long road for him to get to this point; he’d faced more than his fair share of trials and tribulations. It was a blessing that after so many years of living in a state of constant terror and anxiety that he’d finally been able to find it within himself to settle down enough to shift—to let his full-self shine through.

            _So, yeah, it was perfect._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merle's a ratle (honey badger) and Daryl's a Eurasian Red Squirrel (NOT an American Red Squirrel).


	16. Video Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He holds me in his big arms_   
>  _Drunk and I am seeing stars_   
>  _This is all I think of_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied dub-con/non-con, asphyxiation, physical beating, alcohol use

            He liked it when it hurt.

            It reminded him of who he used to be—someone different from the abused shell of the man that now sat huddled naked in the corner of a dark room, waiting to be used like a child’s discarded plaything.

            “Daryl…”

            There were always whistles and moans; his name called like a beast asked to serve its master.

            He always answers.

            Big hands and leather gloves touch him up and down; rub him in all the wrong places that feel more than just good.

            There’s heat and tempo as two separate minds and bodies begin to move as one.

            He knows there’s no room to think of escape; to think of a way to rewrite history.

            It was always going to be just one—Negan.

            Daryl knew that now.

            He didn’t fight anymore.

            He tilts his head back and lets the blunt edge of pearl-white teeth scrape against the stubble along his jawline.

            It’s posturing. It’s possession. It’s control. It’s everything.

            They kiss in the blue dark; wet tongues and sloppy lips dance without resistance, and there’s a sweet hint of whisky mixed into their passion.

            “C’mon.”

            Drunk and slurred.

            A flat palm meets his cheek with thunderous greeting.

            He’s seeing stars.

            He’s seeing his mistakes.

            He’s used to it, though.

            Shattered Virgins and a baseball bats flood his vision.

            White hot petals smear across his lips as he pants for breath.

            This is all he thinks of.


	17. Graveyard Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick gives him another question that isn’t really a question, and Daryl is ready to give the other man whatever answer he needed to move forward with his temptations.

            They’re standing in the middle of a cemetery, high statues of angels and long-lost loved ones stand tall in the empty night air, casting shadows over their stilled forms.

            Rick’s been looking at him all night since it’s just been the two of them; watching him like he had a question stuck on the tip of his tongue and he’s just too shy to bring forth for Daryl’s attention. But Daryl notices, tucks his observation away in the pocket of his mind to save for later examination.

            The frosted grass crunches beneath their boots as they make their way further into the forest of granite tombstones; they walk together side by side, slowly. Until they don't.

            As they wander through the graveyard Rick’s foot catches on a mound of dirt, sending him falling to his knees like a newborn calf. Daryl whirls in place to help provide his friend leverage, but when he sees the other man he knows Rick’s not planning on moving.

            Rick’s knelt in the soil beside a black-stone crypt, looking up at Daryl with dark blue eyes that speak of a long-founded hunger he hadn’t noticed until that moment. The hunter’s throat goes dry as he stands before the other man, fingers trembling at his sides waiting for the next move to break the intimidating silence.

            “Daryl?”

            He doesn’t know what kind of question Rick’s asking, but it doesn’t matter, he never tells Rick ‘no’. He loyally nods.

            An unsteady hand reaches out to touch at the side of his denim-clad thigh; he can feel the drag of torn skin against the texture of rough fabric. Rick’s hand traces the outer line of his thigh until it reaches the waistband of his pants. His fingers linger over the button and fly.

            “Daryl?”

            Rick gives him another question that isn’t really a question, and Daryl is ready to give the other man whatever answer he needed to move forward with his temptations.

            “Yeah.” Daryl nods shyly, watching as the other man’s finger quickly pops the button of his jeans before dipping lower to pull at the tab of his zipper.

            His pants are tugged down to his ankles and he’s left standing against the cool air with nothing but his boxers, but Rick’s looking up at him as if he were wearing a crown of gold and a robe of silk. Daryl watches as Rick’s tongue pokes out from his mouth to lick a thin stripe across his chapped lip. He can see the other man is near starving.

            Rick crawls closer to Daryl, walking on his knees across frozen earth and unseen tombs, “Oh, God, Daryl…”

            “Yeah, Rick,” His own voice sounds foreign to his ears; a noise between that of a desperate man begging and the command of someone that walks with certainty.

            Daryl’s breath hitches as he watches—no, _feels_ —Rick lean into his building heat. The other man’s nose nuzzles against the outline of the hunter’s hardness and inhales like he’d just been caught beneath an ocean of suffocating waves. _Maybe he had been?_

            Daryl is not one to deprive an asphyxiated man of oxygen. He rocks himself forward into Rick’s space.

            Rick takes another deep breath.

            Daryl wonders what he smells like.

            “Been waitin’ to tell you,” Rick murmurs, his mouth tickling against Daryl’s taint as the words pass between his lips, “So long…”

            Daryl lightly moans against the sensation and confession, “Ain’t gotta wait.”

            Rick delicately nibbles at the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, “Wanted this for so long.”

            Daryl exaltedly expresses his mutual agreement by reaching a quivering hand out to stroke along the back of the other man’s neck while widening his stance to better invite further entrance, “M’ right here, Rick.”

            And at some point between all the rubbing and moaning, Rick’s teeth catch hold of the waistband of Daryl’s boxers to draw them away to unveil the hunter’s interest. Daryl squirms in place as Rick dives face-first into his heat, the other man’s tongue swirling around his girth with wet flicks and greedy suckles. There’s calloused fingers digging into the toned muscles of his thighs and ass as they roam up and down, caressing over the softness of his cheeks and into the shy crease of his entrance. Rick’s face is buried deep within the cushion of the hunter’s russet curls, and in that moment, Daryl swears he can see what God looks like.

            “Lord, Daryl,” Rick babbles as he pulls away to take a quick breath, “you’re like ginger n’ cigarettes.”

            “Y-yeah?” his voice stutters as he tries to stay focused on answering, battling against the urge to press deeper into Rick’s throat for release.

            “Mmhmm,” Rick hums around his shaft.

            He’d never been one for wasting time, so it’s with no surprise when Daryl euphorically blacks out; bursting at the seams as he frantically spills his load into Rick’s mouth. As he climbs down from his high, he notices how his spend leaks from the corner of Rick’s lips, a thin dribble of white cum trailing along the stretch of the other man’s neck, down past the collar of his shirt. He watches Rick swallow, tantalizing throat bobbing as he soaks in Daryl’s flavor.

            Daryl’s mouth goes dry as he watches Rick gulping and gasping on his knees.

            “Tastes perfect.”


	18. Negan's Good Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annoyed by Daryl’s lack of enthusiasm, Negan dug his fingers into the tangled strands of Daryl’s hair and growled, “I said fucking lick it up like a good bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, ok so... This weekend has turned into a bit of a shit-show. A pretty decent amount of my flights have been pushed around with hours-worth of delays, so my schedule has been screwed pretty royally. I'm just posting this quickly to make sure it's up before I forget about it. I apologize for all of the delays and mistakes with my writing! ;(
> 
> Unbeta'd
> 
> Warning: dub/non-con, humiliation

            He could feel Negan’s dark stare linger on the back of his neck, raking over the details of the leather collar locked around his neck and eyeing the way his scarred flesh glowed beneath the room’s spotlights.

            “Daryl, be a good boy an’ come on over here.” Negan whistled as he snapped his fingers.

            Daryl glared and remained motionless, standing still in the center of the room as he held a tray of crystal glasses and aged scotch.

            He’d said it once before and he’d say it again ‘til his tongue bled dry—he was no one’s bitch.

            Negan’s annoyance spiked from the hunter’s obvious dismissal of his orders. The man gave a low chuckle before reaching down to grab hold of the long chain that was bolted to the floor and latched to Daryl’s collar. He gave the chain a not-so-gentle tug, causing Daryl to jerk back and wheeze at the momentary loss of breath, the glasses on his tray spilling as he regained balance.

            “I said. Get. Over. Here.” Negan half-snarled, half-hummed.

            The crowd around them began to murmur in low whispers as they looked on to observe Daryl’s defiance and Negan’s wrath. The attention made Daryl more than uncomfortable.

            “Now.” Negan emphasized with a final tug on Daryl’s chain.

            The hunter straightened his back and puffed out his chest as he fearlessly made his way toward the man seated within the comfort of the room’s most luxurious chair. The room fell silent as he walked; the only sounds were the chains of his ‘leash’ and the quiet pad of his blistered feet against the stone tiles.

            “See,” Negan grinned as Daryl stopped in front of him, tray in hand and glaring like a man scorned, “that wasn’t so bad, right?” His gloved hand reached out to stroke along the bare expanse of the hunter's belly as if Daryl were a dog needing to be pet and scratched for his obedience, “Sometimes I think you’re some kind of feral animal, growlin’ at me like some damned thing with rabies,” he grinned, “But I know you know a fucking command when you hear it,” Negan pointed his finger against Daryl’s chest, “And I know you can follow it.” Negan ended with a firm smack against Daryl’s rear.

            Feeling unnecessarily humiliated and belittled, Daryl kept his eyes glued to the floor as he felt the anger boil beneath the mask of his apathy. But when Negan’s hand landed another stinging smack across his naked ass, Daryl resolve snapped.

            “Follow this.” Daryl snarled as he dumped the bottle of scotch over Negan’s head. Daryl watched with satisfaction as the amber liquid bled into the man’s starch-white shirt, spilling over Negan's legs and dripping onto the floor in a blossoming puddle beneath his boots.

            Negan looked surprised, his eyes widening as his mouth hung open in a display of apparent shock. But it only lasted for a moment until…

            “Daryl.”

            Negan was pissed.

            Daryl took an involuntary step back as he watched the darkness of Negan’s eyes turn a deeper shade of asshole. He saw Negan gnash his teeth into a mock smile before his hand fisted into the constricting chain and yanked Daryl forward until the hunter’s face was awkwardly caught in his alcohol-drenched lap.

            “I know that must’ve been an accident.” Negan grit as his eyes began to glisten with hints of menacing glee.

            Daryl held his tongue and kept his eyes locked with Negan’s intimidating stare as his face was forcefully pulled further into the wet spot of the other man’s pants.

            “Lick it up.”

            Daryl’s ears rang for a second or two.

            Annoyed by Daryl’s lack of enthusiasm, Negan dug his fingers into the tangled strands of the hunter's hair and growled, “I said fucking lick it up like a good bitch.”

            The hunter paused, eyes wide and searching as he looked over his audience to see if he had someone to call on for help. No one. There was never any help for him.

            There was a sharp slap across his already bruised face, “Did I fucking stutter?”

            Before Daryl could think, his tongue slipped, “Ain’t no one’s bitch.”

            Negan’s brows rose with surprised amusement, “Oh, is that so?” He pushed Daryl back to get a better view of the hunter’s naked form knelt before him in a puddle of wasted booze.

            “Let me get one thing straight for your simple, backwoods-educated brain,” Negan whistled as his free hand dipped to his belt to pull out his serrated knife.

            Negan leaned forward to drag the pointed tip of his blade across the wiry curls of Daryl’s taint in a circular motion, outlining the root of the hunter’s shaft and balls. Daryl hissed at the sensation and tried to force himself to remain unwavering in the face of Negan’s torment.

            “When I say lick,” Negan crooned against the shell of Daryl’s ear as the edge of the blade nicked his flesh, “You better goddamn lick.”

            Daryl gasped as he felt the blade’s teeth draw blood.

            “Otherwise I may just decide on neutering my rabid lil’ boy to get him a bit more on the cuddly side of things,” Negan winked as the fingers still laced through the hunter's hair began to gently scratch behind his ears, “An’ I can’t say I’m the best at working my way around this type of equipment. So a bitch you may in fact be if you don’t follow my damn orders.”

            Everyone was silent.

            “Understood?”

            Daryl couldn’t think straight while the blade remained circling around and digging into his most vulnerable parts of himself.

            Negan jerked the leash forward, “I expect my pet to answer when I ask them a question.”

            Daryl held back a yelp as he slowly nodded his head in response, “Yeah.”

            “Good boy.” Negan crooned as he gave a quick peck of the lips atop the crown of Daryl’s head before retracting his knife and slipping it back into its sheath, “Now be a doll and clean up this mess you’ve created. I want it spotless.”

            Ashamed of his cowed response to Negan’s treatment, Daryl kept low to the ground as he began to clean the mess on the floor. His tongue flicked over the amber liquid with timid kitten licks, hesitant to relish the flavor of scotch and dirt. Once he finished mopping the floor with his tongue, Daryl’s head felt dizzy and he had a slight buzz thanks to his current state of malnourishment.

            As he was about to stand, Negan reached out to place a palm atop his shoulder, “I don’t think you’re done yet.”

            Daryl looked to him with questioning eyes, his head spun with confusion and his vision was becoming clouded, but he’d made certain that he'd cleaned the spill at Negan’s feet like he'd been told.

            “You missed a spot.” Negan grinned as he pointed to the wet patch coating the expanse of his crotch.

            Daryl was about to reach out for a napkin from his tray, but his hand was quickly smacked away, “Doggies don’t use napkins, Daryl.”

            Daryl sneered as he looked back at Negan’s playful smirk, “I want you to clean this up on your fucking hands and knees.” Negan barked out a cruel laugh that was quickly followed by a mirrored eruption of noise from their audience, “Show me what kind of shit that talented tongue of yours can really do.”

            Daryl steeled himself as he sank back to the floor and positioned himself on his hands and knees. He kept his eyes closed as he crawled forward and nuzzled his way into the dampened warmth between Negan’s legs. He was immediately overwhelmed by the potent scent of alcohol and… there was another lingering scent he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was a heady scent, something that smelled rich and masculine. Daryl tried to hold his breath as he opened his mouth to begin his task, but the second his tongue took its first drag across the stain, Daryl immediately knew what the unknown scent was. Daryl frozen in place.

            “Oh, yeah… You might be cleanin’ up more than just some of that scotch.” Negan joked as his hands came up to pet the back of Daryl’s head and neck, “Might’ve had a bit of an explosion down there while I was watching you lick up my floor buck-naked like some thirsty whore.”

            Daryl tried not to gag, pushing through the unpleasant scent and the persisting flavor of Negan’s release as he continued to ‘clean’.

            “Mm, damn are you somethin’ else or what?” Negan purred as he rocked his hips forward into Daryl’s face, “Man, I should’ve gotten a bitch sooner in life. Would’ve helped to relieve a shit ton of stress…”

            Bourbon and salt lingered on Daryl’s tongue and he wished he could wash away its taste.

            “You look damn fine on all fours like that, Daryl.” Negan’s fingers were light and gentle as they caressed the nape of Daryl’s neck, delicately trailing along the edge of his collar, “If you’re a good boy I may even let you sit in my lap as a treat.”

            Daryl shivered with repulsion.

            _Fuck this guy._

            Once Daryl finished, he quickly pulled away from Negan’s heat and tried to unsteadily claw his way onto his feet. “Ah, ah, ah! Now wait just a minute, boy.” But Negan had other plans. The man was quick to reel Daryl in without much of a struggle, pulling on the chain and using its constriction to force the hunter backward until the tight strap of leather around his neck cut off his air circulation and left him blue in the face.

            “Thank you, Daryl.” Negan cooed as he tickled his fingers beneath the scruff of Daryl’s chin; the hunter laid helplessly limp against the other man's leg, “Such a good boy for me.”

            Daryl held back a scoff as large arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him upward and into Negan’s open lap. The sensation of the other man's reviving hardness rubbing against Daryl’s backside did not go unnoticed. The hunter squirmed in place, trying to disentangle himself from the man’s hold, but was soon shushed once a hand reached around to grab at the softness between Daryl's own legs.

            “Time for your reward, Daryl.”

            Daryl remained static and helpless as rough fingers began touching him in places that he’d never before welcomed anyone else to explore. He could feel the eyes that were on him from all angles of the crowded room, gawking and witnessing his assault all while cheering for its continued escalation. Daryl felt like he was going to be sick.

            This wasn’t a reward. This was hell.

            “Good boy.”


	19. I Know the Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I’ve spent more than my fair share of time beneath my husband’s thumb,” She starts, giving herself one more step forward so that she can push a finger against the center of his chest, “I know the colors of abuse.”
> 
> Takes place sometime during _This Sorrowful Life_ while Carol and Merle share that scene together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: implied/referenced physical abuse, implied/threatened gun violence
> 
> Unbeta'd

            “I know men like you.”

            She’s got him cornered in against a concrete wall; cropped silver hair and thin frame crowding into his space with as much intimidation as if she carried the same bite of a pitbull. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down the back of his neck, but he’s determined not to let the bitch break his grin and force his hand—he’s got a feeling she’s already well-informed on how to read between the lines unlike the other pussies his brother’s deemed acceptable to surround himself with.

            So Merle just barks out a short laugh and gives her a sly wink, “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about, lil’ mouse. Ain’t no other men like me.”

            Her sky-blue eyes give him a look that says she knows otherwise—she’s witnessed for herself firsthand, “There’s always other men like you.”

            His grin fades into a sour expression, “Ya don’t say?”

            “I’ve spent more than my fair share of time beneath my husband’s thumb,” She starts, giving herself one more step forward so that she can push a finger against the center of his chest, “I know the colors of abuse.”

            “You makin’ me out to sound like some kindda Picasso, ain’tcha?” He’s avoiding the truth. He knows and so does she.

            “I’ve seen the bruises on his neck, Merle.” She hisses; her other hand reaching to the table to grab at the gun she’d just finished cleaning a moment ago, “Blue. Purple. Black.”

            His mouth goes dry at the accusation. The truth.

            The gun in her hand rises to eye level and she playfully presses its muzzle against his left temple, “This isn’t art class. You need to stop.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, woman.”

            Her laugh is delicate but haunting as she makes a show of pulling back the hammer and increasing the weapon’s pressure against his forehead, “We’ve all seen how he acts with and without you around. I’ve seen the bruises painting his skin—the ones you think you two are smart enough to hide from questioning eyes. I know what I’m looking at. It’s not healthy.”

            Her breath is so close it tickles the flesh of his exposed neck. He wants to pull away, but there’s nowhere to escape to now that she’s got him so evenly pinned between a rock and a hard place.

            “It stops now,” She nods, “Otherwise we’ll be adding some red to the palette,” Her eyes sparkle and crinkle with her smile as she glances to the gun held in her grip, “And I’m sure I can paint a pretty picture with that.”

            The threat is clear as day and he finds himself slowly nodding as he watches her step down from her tiptoes and retract the muzzle from his forehead. He quickly gulps for breath as soon as she steps away from his bubble of personal space, and he finds himself slightly shivering from her forwardness.

            “You sure as hell ain’t the same lil’ mouse I met back at the quarry.”

            She smirks at him, “No, I suppose I’m not.”

            There’s silence for a moment as the two of them watch each other for any attempted movement.

            “And neither is Daryl.”


	20. Kilos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _White lines, pretty baby, tattoos_   
>  _Don't know what they mean_   
>  _They're special, just for you_   
>  _White palms, baking powder on the stove_   
>  _Cooking up a dream, turning diamonds into snow_

            Rick never thought he’d get tangled in the boy’s web. But here he was years after the big drug bust that shut away Merle Dixon, sitting in the driver’s seat with a redneck twink hangin’ off his arm like sweet candy.

            “It’s hard to drive with you clingin’ to me like that, y’know?” Rick looked over to Daryl with a grin.

            Daryl was wearing black leather and silver-rimmed sunglasses as he sat in the passenger seat puffing away at a slim cigarette between his chapped lips. He was the definition of ‘cool’. It made Rick swoon every time he glanced at the younger man.

            Daryl was a bolt of lightning—his beauty shined so fast and dangerously that you’d have to blink to miss it. But Rick was struck on first contact when he’d busted down the door and caught the youngest Dixon leaning over a hot stove in nothing but a pair of ripped shorts and a tattered apron. The boy’s blond hair was cropped short and glowed beneath the room’s dim lights; his eyes cut like diamonds the first time Rick held his stare. And all at once the world stopped for the two of them.

            “Ain’t hard enough if y’ ask me.” Daryl teased as he snaked his hand low to cup at the older man’s groin, rubbing his palm over Rick’s member in a playful show of interest. Rick felt himself twitch in his jeans as he rocked his hips further into the contact.

            The first time he’d met Daryl he’d looked like the equivalent of sin—tattoos and gold skin.

            The boy had remained passive yet snarky as he watched the police raid his home; the force’s heavy boots stormed from room to room looking for more and more evidence to pile up against the eldest Dixon. Dope. Guns. They'd find what they needed to put Merle away.

            “An’ who th’ hell are _you_?” Rick remembers his partner at the time, Shane, stepping forward to ask the kid, “We didn’t get any info about a kid being on site. What're you, like, twelve an' already spinnin' out coke for your brother?”

            “You damn pigs ain't got shit on me," The boy had hissed out like a pussycat caught in the rain, “Ain’t none of yer damn business.”

            “Right. Well it's about to become our business, kid." Shane threw back his head with a laugh as he sauntered over to stand between the snarling boy and the stove, “You makin’ me dinner or is that some kindda science project we gotta confiscate for this shit-show?”

            The boy smirked as his eyes flicked between the officers and his simmering pot on the burning range, “Cookin’ up a dream. Not that you’d care.”

            “Sure thing, sweetheart,” Shane sighed as he reached for the handcuffs hanging off the side of his belt, “We'll care a hellova lot more once you come in to tell us about it."

            Rick frowned as he watched the hopeful expression on the boy’s face fade into a dejected pout. The kid took a step back into the corner, looking a lot like a kicked puppy.

            “S’ true. Was gonna get Merle n’ me outta here with all this snow. Said so himself.” The boy sniffed as he rubbed his hands on the apron, “He ain't good for much, but he keeps his promises."

            “Shane, put the cuffs away." Rick's voice was calm but warning as he held out both of his hands in a placating and peaceful manner toward the boy, "We don't gotta treat him like a criminal. Like you said, s' just a kid."

            Shane looked to Rick with obvious annoyance before dropping the cuffs back to his side. With an understanding nod and a sigh, both of the officers then began sweeping their eyes over the kitchen to look for anything out of the ordinary. They both caught the hints of used needles and enough white powdered lines to be considered as a ski resort sprinkled across the countertops. _He was just sixteen and already looking for an escape_ , Rick remembers thinking to himself the day he’d met Daryl Dixon.

            Rick swore he’d become that escape for Daryl.

            “What's your name?" Rick asked when his eyes raked over the boy's timid form.

            “Daryl."

            That night after they’d read Merle his rights and sent him to sleep behind bars, Rick approached the boy that he and Shane had taken into the precinct and offered him a place to stay on his couch. That was three years ago.

            Now Daryl isn't caught up in drugs or danger anymore. Daryl's with Rick. He's happy. Healthy. Stable. Rick's the only thing Daryl needs now.

            “Gonna play with your pretty baby, Rick?” Daryl purrs as his fingers skillfully unzip the front of Rick’s jeans, “I got somethin’ for ya.”

            Rick’s fingers dig into the grip of the steering wheel as he fights against his boy’s temptations. Daryl was always so good at tempting Rick to stray just like a snake in the Garden of Eden.

            “Yer gonna get me in trouble if you keep messin’ with me like this, Daryl.”

            “Ain’t no trouble as long as you'll be by my side.”


	21. Ghost Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl’s eyes feel like they’re bulging out of his skull as he watches Shane move his hand. He feels everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is obviously a trainwreck-fantasy of Daryl having an unrealistic case of mirror-touch synesthesia. All smutty fiction. Unbeta'd
> 
> Warning: Slight dub-con & voyeurism

            Sometimes he couldn’t stand to be around people, surrounded by their loud voices and grabbing hands. It was just too much sometimes—too much to focus on at once. Too much stimuli to wreak havoc on his senses.

            It’s why he keeps his tent far away from the others, way out towards the edge of the field near the bordering fence-line of the farm. It’s why he keeps his eyes downcast as best he can and make himself scarce when he felt that everything was becoming too overwhelming for him to handle.

            It was both better and worse when it was just him.

            When he was alone he didn’t have to listen to people nagging at him, demanding his participation and asking him dumb questions so as to get him to speak. He didn't have to be subjected to others' violent tendencies, the abuse inflected upon one man to the next before his very own eyes. He didn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes when he was by himself, his stare didn’t have to catch on someone’s lingering thumb against another’s bicep or freeze at the sight of a man kissing his wife just before bedtime. When he was alone he didn’t have to feel the ghosting sensations of strong fingers brushing against his arm or rough stubble scratching against the supple flesh of his cheek. When it was just him he didn’t have to feel anything that he didn’t ask for.

            But he couldn’t make it alone. He knew that. Merle knew it, too. They’d both tracked down the group at the quarry and saddled themselves as their newest company just so they’d have the numbers for a better chance at survival. He’d admit, it was harder to be on his own when he didn’t have someone watching his back or telling him where he should turn next; harder to get along at night without the comforting murmurs echoing from the campfire long past the moon’s arrival in the dark velvet sky. It was harder to go it alone with only the invisible comfort of a ghost.

            “Daryl? Hey man, you still in there?” Shane’s hand waves up and down in front of the hunter’s vision, causing him to startle and self-consciously blink himself back into the interrupted moment they'd been sharing, “Thought I’d lost ya, bud. Zoned out on me.”

            Standing on the edge of their camp with the other man by his side, Daryl listens to Shane chuckle jovially as he looks up to find the ex-cop’s eyes wandering across the field to where their group’s women were bent over a bucket of soaked laundry, asses high in the air and shirts damp with soap suds. He quickly lowered his gaze.

            “Man, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on one of ‘em. Just to listen to those little sounds they make when you’re touchin’ ‘em in all the right places. See them fallin' apart in bed...” Shane sighs, his hands reach out to make a gesture that resembles the curve of two ass cheeks, “Know what I mean?”

            Daryl just scoffs at the other man’s gesture. He’s never been one for small talk let alone one for thinking about _that._

            “C’mon man, really?” Shane looks at him with that stupid look of incredulity, his forehead creased and one brow raised as he dips his head forward into the hunter’s space, “You tellin’ me you ain’t interested in a piece of ass like that?” The ex-cop points a finger not-so-subtly over to where Andrea is kneeling over a washboard, her breasts jiggle slightly as her arms scrub at dirtied fabric and the rounded curve of her ass strains against the constricting denim of her blue jeans.

            Daryl shakes his head as he shyly averts his gaze, “Naw, ain’t got time for that shit.”

            “Ain’t got time for that shit? Heh,” Shane huffs as he looks back to the hunter, “Man, all’s we got anymore is time.”

            There’s a rustling coming from Daryl’s side and he, being the idiot that he is, looks over to find Shane’s hand fumbling against his crotch, palming at the twitching length hidden beneath the man’s trousers. Daryl flushes immediately as he feels a mirrored pressure against his own groin; his legs feel numb and his body twitches with unintended delight all the while his eyes are unable to be torn away from Shane touching himself. He isn't supposed to get caught like this.

            “Ah, yeah, just imagine squeezing that thing like a Georgia peach,” Shane moans to himself as his fingers begin to unzip his fly, “Bet it’d be as refreshing as a glass of ice water these days.”

           But it's too late, his eyes are glued. Daryl can't help it.

            Daryl can barely see it, but he knows Shane’s touching himself, sticking his hands down his pants and rubbing his weathered fingers up and down his hardening shaft like some kind of caveman looking for more friction. The hunter feels every movement that he watches Shane make. It feels like there’s ants in Daryl's pants and he’s suffocating. He needs everything to just stop for a minute so he can regain his bearings and find a way to escape.

            But it feels too good to look away just yet.

            “Shane…” Daryl gasps, his eyes still caught on Shane’s hand and cock, “Stop.”

            “The fuck, Daryl? Can’t let a man have some fun?”

            Shane tears his eyes away from Andrea and looks over to the hunter with unveiled frustration before he takes in Daryl’s appearance. Daryl’s flushed red and sweating from the exertion of remaining still beneath the mirrored ministrations of Shane’s palm and the hot afternoon sun. His legs are quivering still, spread open ever so slightly to allow for a better air flow, and Daryl knows immediately when Shane’s eyes catch the brief twitch in the hunter’s pants as if it were an illuminated sign reading ‘Daryl Dixon’s Hard Enough to Cut Diamonds’. He watches Shane lick his lips and he swears he can feel the same soft pressure of wet saliva and tongue trace across his bottom lip.

            “So you do like havin’ fun, eh, Dixon?” Shane smirks as he pulls his dick further out of his pants and really goes to town stroking the thing up and down with jerky motions, “A little bit a’ locker room jackin’ never hurt nobody.”

            Daryl’s eyes feel like they’re bulging out of his skull as he watches Shane move his hand. He feels everything.

            “Sh-Shane…” Daryl’s practically panting as he uses all of his focus on just standing upright without support, “Y’ n-need t’ st-sto-stop.”

            “C’mon, man.” Shane grunts as he gives himself a long pull and a tantalizing twist.

            Daryl’s eyes are stuck.

            “J-j-just h-hold up a sec!” Daryl’s begging as he’s trying to force his eyes to look away. But he can’t. Shane’s so well-hung and juicy and he’s right there in front of Daryl pumping himself like some virile beast waiting for the perfect mount. And it feels almost too good.

            But Shane pauses to look back over at the youngest Dixon.

            “Y’ alright man?”

            “I c-can’t…”

            That’s when Shane notices that Daryl’s never even glanced at Andrea. The hunter's hands are still at his sides, nails digging into the center of his palms while his pants remain belted and tight against his waist. Daryl's eyes have been focused on Shane rubbing one out the entire time.

            “Didn’t take you for a gay man, Dixon.”

            Daryl weakly snarls “Ain’t gay.”

            “Uh huh,” The ex-cop shrugs as he begins rolling his thumb over the leaking tip of his cock, “Then why you been starin’ at me with them pretty blue eyes like you some kindda starvin’ man lookin’ at an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

            It feels like Shane’s touching him, rough fingertips smoothing over his shaft and slicking the way with his dribbling mess. Daryl hisses at the sensation.

            “S’ not like that…” He uselessly blinks, trying to tear his eyes away from Shane. But the ex-cop’s junk is like a magnet and his eyes are stuck eyeing its tantalizing girth once more, “S' just wired wrong...”

            Shane’s really looking him over now, watching the way Daryl’s hips twitch in time with every motion the ex-cop makes, mirroring every smooth jerk and hard rub. Shane keeps up with the game for a moment, taking in how Daryl responds to him like a puppet dancing with the helpful guide of unseen strings.

            “That’s some weird shit, man.” Shane finally whistles as understanding of what Daryl’s experiencing dawns on him, “But I gotta admit… It is a turn on.”

            “Ain't a turn on,” Daryl huffs and takes a step forward, “But if yer’ gonna toy with me then just finish already.” He growls.

            “Nah,” Shane shakes his head slowly, “I think this deserves some more attention to detail.”

            And then suddenly Shane’s grabbing Daryl’s wrist and dragging the hunter back toward his tent on the outskirts of their camp, quickly tossing them both inside until they’re covered from any potential watching eyes. Daryl’s breathless and flustered, but Shane’s leaning over top of him and smirking like a fiend.

            “Gonna take this nice n’ slow,” Shane hums as his fingers start to unbutton his blue shirt, Daryl watches as the man's silver chain and '22' charm dangle from his neck like an anchor, “For both of us.”

            And for some reason, Daryl finds it hard to look away as he watches— _feels_ —Shane’s calloused fingertips graze over the smooth expanse of chest, brushing lightly over dusky nipples before pinching and twisting both nubs. The feeling elicits wanton moans and whimpers to slip from between the hunter’s previously sealed lips. Shane continues to tease him as he holds Daryl's attention with every delicate brush and quick pinch, "Look at me, Daryl."

            “Yeah, you like that, don’tchu?” Shane rumbles as his hands smooth over his abs and dip beneath the waistband of his pants.

            Shane’s unbuckling his jeans in a hurried movement as he looks down at Daryl laying across the ground with his mouth hanging open and legs spread like a pussycat in heat, “All’s ya gotta do is shut your eyes an’ it’ll be over.” Shane grins as he turns himself around in Daryl’s view and starts palming at both of his ass cheeks, squeezing and scratching at the meat of his glutes until there’s obvious hand prints smeared across the pliable flesh. Daryl watches as thick fingers dip into the crease of Shane's rear, and he sees how the other man's tight ring of muscle tenses and then relaxes beneath Shane's playful ministrations, giving way to his welcomed intrusion. Daryl feels himself squirming against the pressure.

            “But you can’t look away.” Shane purrs as he slips his finger free and softly sweeps it across his lips while his other hand remains low enough to play with the weight of his balls.

            Then there’s more rustling and readjusting until Shane’s cock is shoved immediately into the hunter's line of sight, its heady scent potent and foreign against Daryl’s nostrils. There’s pressure on Daryl’s cock again, causing him to feel the slow burning drag of a ghost’s hand begin to work him to completion. Everything feels like it’s slowed down just so that it can all cram into this one moment of forced ecstasy. His eyes are watering but he won’t look away—can’t look away, just like Shane said. There’s something boiling beneath his skin and building in the pit of his gut as he watches Shane's hands, and suddenly he’s spilling free, climaxing inside the restricted confines of his jeans.

            His eyes are closed for a second or two as he climbs down from his blissed-out high, only a momentary reprieve from the sinful taunting around him. But the second he opens them again he finds Shane still kneeling beside his head, stroking himself in short, strangled jerking motions. Suddenly it feels like _too much_ and the pressure is tugging painfully at Daryl’s nerve endings while he watches Shane chase his dragon.

            “Shane!” Daryl’s voice rasps desperately as he tries to force his eyes shut.

            But just before he manages to close out the world completely, Daryl sees the euphoria fall over Shane’s expression as he begins to frantically uncoil. With a sputtering gasp, Shane's releasing his seed across Daryl’s face; streaks of white-hot spend marking the hunter’s features in a creamy mess of the other man's rapture.

            Once his breathing evens and he’s laid down beside the hunter, Shane pants, “That was fan-fucking-tastic.”

            Daryl huffs as he swipes an arm across his face to clear away the mess of Shane’s spend, “Yeah, for you.”

            Shane swatted a hand at Daryl’s shoulder, “C’mon, I know you liked it. Made all of 'em pretty little sounds just for me.”

            Daryl blushed, “Ain’t allowed to tell no one.”

            “Dunno, seems like a fun bit of gossip.”

            “Least I weren’t the one touchin’ myself in front of another man.”

            “Was all in good fun.” Shane laughed before rolling onto his side to spoon against the youngest Dixon, “Ain’t no shame in that.”

            Daryl nodded. He could admit that it was nice being able to unwind with someone aside from his own hand. It was always better to have someone else there  _with him_ ; always better to have someone intending for _him_ to be the recipient of their touch—physical or not.

            “Mmhmm,” Daryl grumbled as he pressed back against the other man’s weight, “Ain’t no shame.”


	22. Little Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daryl’s heavy now, body straining with the stretch of growing life and the abuse of exertion. Anchored to the corals of the cecaelia’s den, the coppery shades of his spiny tail reflect the diluted sunlight breaking through the water’s surface, colors dancing between fire and shadow as he strains for comfort. He’s slow now, too slow to run.
> 
> Shane’s made sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I not warn you all that I'd somehow fail at posting? Told ya!
> 
> Anyway this holiday was a bit rough for me. I had to work through the entire week/weekend and deal with really rude, demanding, insulting passengers. Totally killed my vibe and I've been struggling to get back into a solid headspace since.
> 
> Warning: Non-con, tentacle sex, mpreg, egg!preg... Unbeta'd

            Daryl’s heavy now, body straining with the stretch of growing life and the abuse of exertion. Anchored to the corals of the cecaelia’s den, the coppery shades of his spiny tail reflect the diluted sunlight breaking through the water’s surface, colors dancing between fire and shadow as he strains for comfort. He’s slow now, too slow to run.

            Shane’s made sure of it.

            He was young and naïve when fate first led him to Shane. Daryl had been foolish enough to wander past the border of his herd, ignoring his brother’s ominous warnings in favor of venturing further into the sea to find new territory. He’d thought he could make it on his own, but he’d soon realized his mistake when the ocean tides swept him away and pulled him further beneath the water’s depths toward the darkness of the seabed.

            But Shane saved him. Or at least that’s what Shane tells him.

            Long tentacles had wrapped around Daryl’s chest as he struggled against the shift of the tides, tendrils clutched at the meat of his waist, pulling him further and further into the black depths of the ocean floor. Panic had flooded Daryl as he fought for escape, thrashing his curled tail and digging his nails into the creature’s limbs, but his effort was of no use.

            “How’d such a pretty thing like you get lost out here?” A deep, honeyed voice rumbled against Daryl’s ear as his back was pressed against a firm, scaleless chest. Suctioned tentacles raked over the spines of his copper tail while unwelcomed fingers tickled against the gossamer-thin fins along his jaw.

            “Get offa me! I ain’t pretty!” Daryl growled, “And I ain’t lost.”

            The body behind Daryl rumbled with amused laughter, “Doesn’t look that way to me, little fish. All alone with no one around for comfort…” a finger brushed across the merman’s trembling lip, “I can fix that for you.”

            “I don’t—” Daryl had grown startled as he felt more tentacles begin to wrap around his body, pinning him against the solid bulk of his captor’s frame, “Hey, stop!”

            The merman’s head suddenly snapped around as his mouth became enveloped by hungry lips and an intruding tongue. His complaints grew muffled and diminished as he felt himself being stroked over with warm caresses and tender nips against his lips and jaw.

            “I’ve always had an appreciation for your kind,” his captor had hummed, “Like you were just made for this.”

            And then something had touched him. Entered him.

            A finger—no, a tentacle—had teased its way inside his slit, playing with its velvet-soft folds and stretching him wider until he began to moan with undistinguished interest or refusal. Daryl squirmed in place as he’d felt another length breach his opening, wiggling its way inside like a lost pup looking for warmth. He’d been stuffed to the brim between tentacles and tongue, and it had been too much to think about without short-circuiting on the spot.

            “You’ll do nicely,” his captor hummed against his cheek as an arm reached around to rub over Daryl’s belly, wriggling tentacles squeezed inside and beneath his flesh making his midsection protrude and stretch in an unflattering display.

            Between the sensation of his captor’s lips on his neck and the tentacles plugging him like an electrical socket, Daryl had been lost to the world. But then he’d felt something hot burst inside of him, and suddenly the creature behind him began panting against his shoulder as he held the merman just a bit tighter. There’d been a flood of _wrong_ that washed over Daryl, and instantly Daryl had renewed his efforts of escape.

            “Shh, just the eggs, darlin’.” His captor had wrangled with him until the merman was ultimately subdued into a forced state of calm, “Don’t wanna hurt you or the kids.”

            “Please stop, I swear I’ll—Ah… Ahh!” Daryl had cried as he began to feel each individual egg take root inside of him.

            When everything was over—when the flood subsided and the hold lessened—his captor had slipped his tentacles free from Daryl’s impaled slit and brought both of his hands around to place over top of the merman’s now slightly distended belly, “Won’t be alone now, little fish.”

            The merman tried to hold back the sick he’d felt crawling up the back of his throat. He’d known he was screwed—he’d heard stories of creatures lurking in the ocean depths, waiting to prey upon folk like Daryl; always on the prowl for an unsuspecting incubator. He was slow, defenseless, an easy target. His brother had been right. He should’ve listened.

            “I’ll take care of you. Gonna watch you get big and full,” his captor had chuckled, “I bet you’ll give me the most beautiful brood.”

            Then an arm had tugged against Daryl’s hand and began pulling him back into the confines of the creature’s den as he whispered, “Then we’ll do it all over again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic, I made Shane a cecaelia and Daryl a type of seahorse merman... I really wanted merfolk mpreg and some light non-con tentacle porn.


End file.
